


one million fires burning

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Series: out there on the high dive [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Past Castiel (Supernatural)/Other(s), Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Slow Burn, references to alcoholism, references to past emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 248,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Dean Winchester teaches three classes a day, tutors after school, and chairs the English Department for Lawrence High School. He does enough.Unfortunately, his boss doesn't feel the same and informs him that he has a new job: co-coaching the school's trivia team. His co-coach? None other than the school's golden boy, Castiel Milton. Who Dean can't stand, for various reasons, all of which are valid, thank you very much. And the fact that Dean can't stop talking about the stick up Cas's, sorry, Milton's ass?Completely irrelevant.





	1. time to ramble on

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my own personal hell, aka this completely indulgent AU which barged in and refused to leave. 
> 
> It has enough tropes to keep a small army running but I love it anyway. Please pay attention to the tags--if I think there's something problematic in a chapter I'll warn with notes. Normally I suck at slow burns, so let's see how this one goes!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sound of his door unlocking never foretells anything good. 

From his position straddling his chair at the front of the room, Dean can hear the rasp of a key turning and the small click of his lock. He plasters a huge, fake smile on his face at the same time that the kids in front row straighten up in their seats. They’re seniors and they know as well as him: Doors unlocking means administration, which means that everyone needs to be on their best behavior. 

Dean’s heart sinks further when he sees who it is. Vice-Principal Zachariah Adler steps into his room. Of all the admin, it has to be the least appealing. The fluorescent lights bounce off his gleaming, bald head and Dean fights the impulse to shield his eyes. One day, when he doesn’t feel like being employed anymore, he’ll ask Adler if he oils his head or if it’s just naturally that greasy. 

When the kids see who it is, there’s a renewed burst of activity as their pencils move furiously across their papers. These are his AP kids, each of them with their college applications already completed. A negative word from Adler could sink all of their hopes and dreams. Adler would do it too. He’s the kind of person who went into education because the position of ‘Professional Sadist/Asshole’ wasn’t available anywhere else. 

Adler crosses his arms over his paunchy middle and surveys the room. A used car salesman would be ashamed of his smile. Reluctantly, Dean gets up from his chair and goes to stand next to him. 

“What brings you here today?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. It’s not really a secret that he and Adler despise each other but he tries to keep it civil for the kids’ sake. Besides, even though he’s well-loved by students and parents alike, Lawrence High doesn’t have any kind of tenure system and Dean really does enjoy his job. He's not about to give a prick like Adler the satisfaction of firing him. 

“Well, I thought I’d like to have a brief word with you, Mr. Winchester.” 

Dean’s smile twitches. “Love to, but maybe later. As you can see, I have a class at the moment.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Claire’s head lift, her eyebrows creeping up in interest. Dean catches her eyes and shakes his head in warning. 

There’s no kindness in Adler’s smile. “It will just take a moment.” He motions towards the door and Dean steps outside. As the door closes, he can hear the predictable sounds of fifteen teenagers all whispering furiously. 

Dean leans up against the wall, not bothering to hide his hostile body language now that there’s no kids to see him. “So what’s so important that you interrupt my class?”

Adler rocks back and forth on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back. His cheap suit crinkles under the treatment. Dean waits, counting off the seconds in his head and silently curses the man. Every second he wastes here is another minute he’ll spend trying to get his class back under control. 

“Winchester, it’s come to our attention that you’re not pulling your weight.” 

Dean bites back the automatic response, which is a strongly worded _Fuck you_. He teaches three classes a day, tutors after-school, and chairs the English Department. He points this out to Adler, fairly politely he feels, since the man’s just accused him of slacking. Dean’s been accused of many things in his life, but not working hard? That’s never made the list. 

“Yes, but if you’d bothered to read the handbook for this year, you would have seen that all general education teachers are also required to sponsor an after-school activity, such as a team or a club. It helps foster a sense of community.” 

Adler bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile. The only community that this man has ever been a part of is quite possibly the ‘Miserable Bastards’ community. Maybe the Nazi party, if Dean’s suspicions are correct. 

“Well, I’d love to help but I think that all teams are sponsored.” Dean knows for damn sure that all the teams are sponsored. 

“Our Scholastic Bowl team has been doing well these past four years. They’ve been gaining attention on a regional level. If they win enough tournaments then they could get attention on a state level. It would be wonderful press for Lawrence High. Go Raiders.” Adler's little fist pump isn't fooling anyone. 

“Good for them. Obviously they don’t need any additional help.” By this point Dean knows that he’s fighting a losing battle but damned if he won’t go down swinging all the way. 

“Always the jokester.” Zachariah reaches out and carefully tugs on Dean’s tie. Dean tries not to vomit all over him although, in retrospect, maybe that would be a good method of self-defense. Didn’t he read an article about some kind of bird that pukes when threatened? The best defense is a good projectile vomit. 

“You’ll be helping out with the Scholastic Bowl team, mentoring our best and brightest students. Their practices are on Mondays and Wednesdays, so that should leave you plenty of time for the rest of your duties.” 

Dean’s lip curls. He might bitch and moan but in the end, if he wants to keep his job, he’s essentially powerless. Adler says ‘Jump’ and Dean has no choice but to say ‘How high?’ 

“Just so happens that today is a Wednesday.” Adler’s smile creeps across his face in acknowledgement. “So, Warden, where should I report this afternoon?”

He can’t remember the sponsor for Scholastic Bowl, even though he has a nagging sensation that he should know this information. Maybe he blocked it out for his own sanity. 

When Adler says, “Milton, room 118,” Dean knows that’s exactly what he did.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

His kids, nosy little bastards that they are, grill him about the visitor the second he comes back into the room. 

“Are you fired?” Claire immediately asks. She even deigns to take out an earbud to hear his response. 

“Much as it would please you, sorry to disappoint. I remain employed.” Claire frowns and Dean squints at her. He’s not entirely convinced that she’s not rooting for him to be fired. Not because she dislikes him but more because she’d enjoy the entertainment. 

“Well then why were you hauled out into the hallway?” Kevin blinks innocently at him. 

“Because they’ve just elected me to Supreme Dictator.” 

Claire mutters something that is in no way flattering. He thinks the words 'Supreme Dick' might come up. When Dean narrows his eyes at her, she has the audacity to smile and wave at him. 

“Come on, tell the truth,” Kevin wheedles. “What’s up?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Much as he hates giving out information to these weasels, in the long run it’s simpler. They might leave him alone at that point. 

“Turns out that they need some help with the Scholastic Bowl and they’ve elected me to help in that regard. So luckily for the nerds, they’ll get to have my expert guidance.”

This news is not greeted with either the cheers that he would have expected. 

“They want...you,” Kevin says. Dean watches him and he can see that genius brain rearranging information. 

“The tone in your voice implies that I should be offended.” Dean’s tone is warning enough to the kids who have had him earlier in their careers but Claire either doesn’t know or, more likely, doesn’t care. 

“It’s just weird that they would pick you.” Dean stares at her and she finally seems to realize her mistake. “I mean, you just...you’re so busy.” She smiles insincerely before putting her earbuds back in, in violation of about six school policies. 

“Well that’s great,” Patience, one of his kinder students, says. “I mean, I’m sure that Mr. Milton could use the extra help.” 

Dean grits his teeth and tries to pass it off as a smile. “And that’s what I’m here for.” That’s what the whole damn school seems to be here for, to help Mr. Milton, to kiss Mr. Milton's ass. 

Krissy, who seems to be in an unofficial contest with Claire for snarkiest student, smiles angelically at him. “See you this afternoon.” 

Dean matches her insincere smile with one of his own. “Can’t hardly wait.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The final bell rings and Dean looks up to the cardboard tile of his ceiling for comfort. He can’t ever remember a day when he dreaded hearing the 3:30 bell. Normally, that signals the end of the day and, if not a trip home, then at least a few hours without interruptions where he can put on the radio and grade in peace. Today, it signals his need to go to where he does not want to go. 

He drags his feet for as long as possible but the kids were adamant: practice begins at 3:45 and Mr. Milton doesn’t appreciate it when anyone is late. Woe betide him who makes the saintly Mr. Milton upset, so Dean actually plans to be on time. At the very least, in theory, his being on time will give Milton one less reason to talk to him. 

Of course, his plans are shot to hell the second he exits his room. Any other day he would be delighted to see Charlie, the school’s IT guru, walking down the hall towards him. Today, he’s just trying to figure out a way to successfully extract himself from a lengthy conversation. 

“‘Sup Winchester?” She throws him a flippant Vulcan salute before stopping to take a closer look at him. “Whoa, who pissed in your Cheerios?” 

“Is it that obvious?” Dean checks his door to make sure that it’s locked, double checks to make sure that he has his key. Not that he couldn’t pick the lock on his room if he really needed to but sometimes it’s best not to let his friends and superiors know of his dubious skills. 

“Yeah, you’re going around at 3:30 looking like someone just kicked your puppy and I know for a fact that you have your planning last period. So what gives?” 

Dean gives up on the idea that he’s going to make it downstairs and across the building in five minutes and settles in to brief Charlie about his day. She grimaces in all the appropriate places, having the same opinion of Adler that Dean does, except double the ability to speak her mind. Charlie is a legit genius, could work in the private sector and make infinitely more money doing so. The fact that the school system has her is a feather in their cap and they’re willing to ignore a lot from her. Which is why Dean’s dressed up in khakis, a button down and tie, and Charlie gets to wear cargo pants and novelty tees. 

“It could be worse,” Charlie says, once Dean finishes his tale of woe. He scoffs and she pushes him. “No really, just think. At least you got Scholastic Bowl, which is populated mostly with students that you already like. You could have gotten something awful, like Drama.” She shudders in mock revulsion. “Can you imagine watching teenagers try to put on Oklahoma!?” 

“I do hate musical theater,” Dean muses. “Still. This means two afternoons a week that I’ll have to spend with Milton.” The words taste sour in his mouth. 

Charlie pushes him again. “I have no idea why you hate him so much. He hasn’t done anything to you.” 

“Well, he hasn’t pushed me down and stolen my lunch money, no, but trust me. He’s done plenty.” 

“So you’ve told me, repeatedly throughout the years whenever his name is brought up, and yet you won’t tell me what this cardinal sin of his is.” 

Dean shrugs and looks away from Charlie’s shrewd look. “It’s a secret.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Whatever man. Personally, I just think that you’re upset because he’s your only real male competition for Hottest Teacher.” 

Dean cocks his head curiously. “Is that a thing now? Like officially? And also, if it was a thing, there’s no way that I would lose.” 

Charlie sucks her teeth. “The man does have a _fine_ ass.” 

Dean gags. “Gross. Gross. I need about fifteen gallons of brain bleach so that I can forget that you ever mentioned that. Ugh. I hate you.” 

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 

“Yeah, whatever nerd. Go back to your devil machines and leave my Bard alone.” 

“Who’s the nerd now?” Charlie calls as he starts down the hallway. “You’d better hurry up! Milton doesn’t like it when people are late!”

“So I’ve been told,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

By the time he reaches 118, it’s 3:52. Dean hangs out for a second outside the door, steeling himself to enter. He really, really, doesn’t want to do this. 

By the time that he realizes he’s acting like a child, it’s 3:53. Dean rolls his eyes and raps on the locked door. From inside the room he hears the sudden, unnatural hush of voices. The door creaks open, slowly, like something out of a horror movie. When Claire pokes her head through the tiny gap, Dean understands why the intro was so dramatic. 

She grins, delighted, and Dean knows that it’s not because she’s happy to see him. “Come on in,” she invites, opening the door wider. To the rest of the classroom she announces, “Our savior has arrived!” 

Dean steps fully into Milton’s room. He’s never been here before and he takes a second to look around. Of course, Milton’s room is enormous, with pristine tables set up at right angles. At the front sits a podium covered with notes, as well as a copy of the Constitution, and a tall stool. Large windows at the back of the room provide plenty of natural light, unlike Dean’s room, whose lighting could best be described as prison-like. Milton’s room is large enough to even house a large bookshelf at the back, as well as an easy chair. Dean struggles to fit twenty-seven desks in his room. 

Once he restrains his envy over the room, Dean takes stock of the students present. Charlie was right: most of them he recognizes from class. There’s Claire, of course, and Kevin, no surprise there, with his super-freaky smart brain. Patience is there, also with her super-freaky smart brain. Krissy, which is a surprise, mostly because she tries so hard not to care about anything. Alex, who might be there because her case worker demanded that she join some kind of extracurricular. Alfie and Inias, who are both entirely too sweet to be surrounded by these vultures. There are a few other students and Dean will probably learn their names at a later date. 

“Mr. Winchester.” 

Dean fights the instinctive flinch that comes from hearing his name spoken by that low, gravely voice. He turns around to face the desk at the back of the room. 

Castiel Milton sits behind his desk, looking like he's in a board meeting instead of a history classroom. He looks remarkably put together in a crisp button down, bright red tie, and tailored waistcoat. Who gets that dressed up for high school? Milton tilts his head like Dean’s a particularly interesting specimen up for examination. One judgmental eyebrow raises and tries to meet the hairline of what is some artfully tousled hair. 

“Thank you for joining us. Finally.” Dean narrows his eyes at the emphasis put on the last word but oh no, Milton isn’t done yet. “I’m sure that the students told you but practice begins at 3:45. I don’t appreciate tardiness, especially not when it comes from a colleague.” 

Dean bites the inside of his lip so that he can keep his curse words on the inside of his mouth where they belong. “I’ll attempt to do better.” If he were gritting his teeth any harder they would shatter. Dean has a sudden, visceral urge to punch someone in the face: Adler or Milton, he’s not picky which, just as long as his fist bruises flesh. 

Milton shuffles several papers around on his desk before he looks up at Dean. There's a hint of surprise in Milton's face, almost like he'd forgotten Dean was standing in front of him. “See that you do.” He blinks and tilts his head in consideration. “I’m positive that this will be an enlightening experience for us both.” 

Dean nods, wanting it to be February already. “Enlightening. Great. Can’t wait.” 

Milton stares for a moment too long, until Dean’s skin crawls underneath his gaze. He’s noticed it in passing before but God, does the man wear colored contacts? He must because no one’s eyes could possibly be that blue. He adds ‘Pretentious About Eye Color’ to the long list of Milton’s faults. “Interesting,” Milton murmurs, before his eyes slide past Dean. “Ah, are we forgetting anything?” 

Behind Dean, there’s a large amount of shuffling as the students pretend like they haven’t been watching this exchange like an episode of reality TV. Krissy moves herself to the front of the room and picks up a packet. She clears her throat and starts to read. 

“According to Plutarch, this man died in prison after he was accused of embezzling gold for one of his projects. This man was once commissioned to sculpt a group of heroes from the Battle of Marathon, including an image of Miltiades. One of his works was Aphrodite of Elis and he also created a work which has a relief of the birth of Pandora on its pedestal. Another of his works shows a figure holding a small statue of Nike in one hand and an eagle on a scepter in the other. For ten points, name this sculptor of Athena Parthenos and Zeus at Olympia.” 

_What in the fucking what_? 

Several buzzers light up, including Kevin’s but Dean focuses on Milton, who makes a small mark on one of his papers and mutters, to himself, “Phidias.” 

Krissy tsks at another incorrect answer before she says, “No, the correct answer would be Phidias! Next question!”

Dean fights the urge to groan and slam his head into the wall. It’s going to be a long damn year. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. flashbacks get me close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument and how the bad blood began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn continues!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At 3:44, Monday afternoon, Dean walks into Milton’s room. There’s no fanfare to announce his presence, just a bunch of nerds scurrying around, setting up an old, complicated buzzer system. Dean thinks about offering his help but decides against it. Instead, he walks back to Milton’s desk, all the while knowing that he'll probably soon regret his choice. 

Milton doesn’t look up from grading papers but Dean knows that his presence has been noted. Something about the way Milton's shoulders tense or the suddenly vicious scrawl of his pen across a paper. Dean does his best to loom over him and interrupt his work. 

“So Adler was pretty vague on what you actually needed from me,” Dean says, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. 

Milton hums without bothering to look up from his grading. Dean waits for another moment before he realizes, no, that was Milton conversing with him. Normally this is about where Dean would throw in the towel but something about Milton brings out the masochist in him, so he continues. “So what do you actually need from me?” 

This at least garners him Milton's full attention, though Dean inwardly shrinks as he's subjected to the stare from those too big, too blue eyes. Milton's head does that stupid tilt again, like an android that only partially successfully downloaded regular human behavior. “Need? Well, nothing.”

Dean blinks. Then, because his irritation is such that if he opens his mouth he’ll end up saying something that he’ll undoubtedly regret, he blinks again. “Excuse me?” he finally asks, proud when his voice lands somewhere within the ‘socially acceptable polite’ range. 

Milton’s face remains an impassive mask. “I don’t really need anything from you. I’m more than capable of running this team; I’ve been doing so for the past four years. It’s a bureaucratic requirement that you’re here.” At Dean’s incredulous look, Milton sighs, rests his elbows on his desk. “Rules state that once a team reaches over fifteen members, more than one faculty member needs to be supervising. The team now has sixteen members, hence,” he waves a dismissive hand at Dean, “your presence. It was in the handbook,” Milton mentions, and that is really the last straw. Dean can swallow a lot but what he cannot tolerate is being screwed around.

Black rage boils hot in his gut and Dean clenches his fists as he tries to keep hold of his temper. He reminds himself that there are students in the room, students that he teaches every day. He can’t afford to give voice to his thoughts but goddamn, does he want to, especially with Milton blinking at him like he can’t possibly understand why Dean would be upset. 

"I would have thought that you would be pleased. After all, this isn't really in your repertoire so--" 

“All right,” Dean interrupts, his voice low and pleasant. He leans in close enough to smell the sharp spice of the other man's cologne. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go back my room and pretend that this whole thing never happened. And you, you’re going to take this whole experience and your handbook too, and you’re going to shove them both up your sanctimonious ass. And the next time that you ever dream of asking me for help, well, you can shove that up your ass too, if there’s room, what with the stick you’ve got buried up there.”

Dean’s never been able to quit while he’s ahead, has always had a tenuous grasp on his temper when it really counted. It’s only after the words are out there, damning and irretrievable, that the grim horror starts to sink in. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. Not only has he shown outright hostility to a coworker, something that he swore he wouldn’t do, what he said could, at best, be taken as borderline sexual harassment. And why was he so obsessed all of a sudden with Milton’s ass? 

“Christ,” Dean mutters, knees going weak from the realization of just how deep he’s managed to step in it. Steel eyes glare through Dean as Milton sucks in several short, angry breaths. 

“Mr. Winchester,” and that voice threatens divine retribution, “may I speak to you outside for a moment?” In a much more pleasant voice, Milton addresses the team. “We need to step outside for a moment to talk about how we’re running practice. Carry on as normal and please don’t murder each other.” 

Sixteen pairs of eyes follow them as they leave the room but Dean can’t care, not when his brain is gleefully replaying the past thirty seconds in Technicolor, HD wonder. Fuck, he’s never done something this monumentally stupid. Once the classroom door closes behind them Milton never pauses. Dean silently follows him and his misery is such that he can’t even make a crack when Milton ducks into the nearest boy’s restroom. 

Milton doesn’t even check to make sure that they’re alone before he whirls on Dean, eyes blazing, lip curled up in a sneer. “Have you lost your mind?” he asks, voice low and deadly. Dean would have preferred it if he’d shouted. 

“I mean it,” Milton repeats when Dean does nothing more than stare at him stupidly. “Have you lost what little mind you have?” 

“Look, Milton, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean tries. He knows that the words are empty but Milton’s derisive laugh serves to punctuate that fact. 

“Dean. Can I call you Dean? I feel like we’re so close now.” Milton’s voice retains that low steel of thrumming rage and even though Dean’s the taller of the two of them, Milton somehow manages to tower over him. A muscle ticks in the corner of his jaw, keeping time with his pulse like a metronome of rage. 

Milton takes a step back and in a rare show of emotion, rakes a hand through his hair. He inhales once through the nose before releasing the breath in a slow hiss through his teeth. When he looks back at Dean the anger is still present in his eyes, though Dean does feel a little less like he’s going to get punched in the face. 

“A more vindictive man would have your job. A pettier man would hold this incident over you for whatever paltry benefits they could reap from threatening you.” Dean swallows as Milton clearly outlines the worst case scenarios. 

Another slow inhale and exhale. Milton runs his fingers through his hair one more time, turning the already messy strands into birds’ nest. His shoulders slump and slowly, the anger bleeds out of him until all that’s left is just Milton as Dean has come to know him, from afar: stiff, unyielding, untouchable. 

“I’m not either of those things Dean. I’m not out for your job and I’m certainly not a blackmailer. And, much as you may think otherwise, I did not create the rules for this school. But I do need to follow them, the same as you.” Milton steps closer, completely ignoring the concept of personal space. “Now, for the next six months we’ll be spending time together and that time can be as awful or as pleasant as we choose to make it. I would prefer spending time with someone who didn’t actively show their contempt for me and the work that I do.” 

The rage might have disappeared but Milton’s jaw remains firm, like it was chiseled out of marble. Dean takes a second to ponder his words. 

“I never showed contempt for--” Milton’s left eyebrow ticks up, the warning clear, and Dean did tell him to shove several things up his ass today, which is most circles is a textbook definition of contempt. It also occurs to Dean what Milton just said: he’s not going to get him fired or hold this over his head, which is damned decent of him, all things considered. For a brief moment, Dean actually feels guilty for thinking the worst of Milton. 

“Cas, look, I’m really sorry about earlier. It’s just...my temper got the best of me and I promise it won’t happen again--” Milton holds his hand up in an abortive gesture and Dean falls silent. 

“It’s fine Winchester. It’s…” For a moment, Milton looks soft--his eyebrows pushed together in thought, mouth turned into a contemplative frown, eyes questioning. If it were anyone else in front of him, Dean would describe the expression on his face as that of _hurt _. But then, Milton shakes his head, an infinitesimal movement, and the marble statue returns. “It’s fine. It happens to the best of us.” But not to me, his tone seems to imply.__

__“Yeah. I, uh…” What apology do you make to the guy who you just told to shove a handbook up his ass? “Sorry, again, Cas.” _Cas? The hell_? __

____

____

__Milton blinks, clear confusion marring his features before he starts towards the bathroom door. “Put it from your mind Winchester. I’m sure that it won’t happen again.” He reaches the door and turns around, his face unreadable. “And it’s Milton. Or Castiel.” He nods once, for punctuation._ _

__Dean glares at his retreating back, though he’s not sure who he’s more irritated with: the asshole who won’t accept a simple nickname, or himself, for unconsciously giving the asshole a nickname._ _

__-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ _

__

__Sam always knows that something’s wrong._ _

__“What’s wrong?” he asks the moment he steps into Dean’s apartment._ _

__Dean glares suspiciously at Sam, wondering if his little brother is psychic or if he’s just that easy to read. “Everything’s fine. Stop standing there like an idiot.”_ _

__Sam squints at Dean and gives him Bitchface #5 (irritated but well within the realms of content overall with life). For a minute, he and Dean have a little staring match, which Dean breaks first, mostly because the burgers are on the grill out back and he doesn’t want them to burn. “At least you brought the beer,” he says, taking the 6 pack out of Sam’s hands. He twists the lid and takes a sip. The beer’s a little warm from the ride over in Sam’s car, but it’s still beer and the ritual is more important than the taste anyway._ _

__Sam steps outside and sits down on one of Dean’s flimsy patio chairs. He looks ridiculous there, all long legs and arms sitting akimbo but Dean loves it. Loves that he and Sam can sit outside of Dean’s townhouse, kick back and just talk like real people. There was a time, about eight years ago, when all of this would have seemed impossible to Dean._ _

__Sam might be thinking that or he might just be thinking about Jessica, Dean’s not really sure what the sappy look on his face means. He flips the burgers back and forth, glancing at Sam over his shoulder while he pokes and prods at the meat._ _

__The late afternoon sun is just starting the reach the rooftops of the buildings opposite him when Dean finishes grilling. It’s a brilliant September evening, close enough to summer to still be muggy but hedging on the side of autumn so that there’s a subtle nip in the air. In his flannel and jeans, Dean feels perfect. His bare feet move across the concrete of the patio as he sets the burgers on a plate._ _

__“Fries should be done in just a second, condiments are inside.” He and Sam move easily around each other as they shift from outside, to inside, back to outside at the table. They should move easily; these nights have become a staple of their lives._ _

__He looks forward to Monday nights, when Sam comes over without Jessica, and he and Dean have a night to just be themselves. Most of the time they don’t talk about much of anything, but there’s a sense of peace when Dean’s with someone that he doesn’t have to explain anything to. Besides, he and Sam have been through so much that between them, a tilt of the head says more than an entire paragraph would between others._ _

__It seems however, that tonight, Sam wants to break their unofficial agreement to Not Talk About Anything Upsetting._ _

__Sam waits until he’s halfway through his second burger and third beer before he strikes. “So,” he says, putting his beer down on the patio table. He crosses his legs and raises an eyebrow which skirts on the wrong side of smug. “Do you want to tell me what you’re so pissed about?”_ _

___Jesus_. Is this what it’s like to sit across from Sam at the negotiating table? Dean has a momentary pang of sympathy for asshole oil execs who just want to drill into nature preserves. _ _

__Sam coughs delicately. Dean tries to outlast him with his stare but Sam must have taken ‘Judgmental Staring 101’ at Stanford because _goddamn_ , does that boy ever need to blink? _ _

__With ill humor, Dean gives up. “It’s fucking Adler. He’s on some kind of weird power trip and he’s got me helping coach the stupid Scholastic Bowl, which is just a bunch of freaky smart kids--”_ _

__“I did Scholastic Bowl,” Sam says, a pleased smile flitting around his face._ _

__“Well good, you can come and give a pep talk. Or better yet, why don’t you take over coaching and I’ll go back to doing, you know, my fucking job.”_ _

__Sam looks closely at him. “You’re not pissed about the gig. What else is going on?”_ _

__Dean sputters on his next sip of beer. There’s being a lawyer and then there’s being some kind of weird psychic. They play the same game again, except this time Dean gives up quicker because he’s already seen how it ends._ _

__“It’s...Milton’s the other coach of the team.”_ _

__Sam immediately hums in understanding. While Dean hasn’t told him everything about Milton, he’s told him enough. “So you have to spend time with Milton. It’s not the end of the world.”_ _

__“No,” Dean says, feeling oddly petulant. “I just…” And then, before he can stop himself, the whole afternoon comes pouring out of him--Milton’s curt dismissal and jibe at his intelligence, Dean’s disastrous response, and then the weird conversation in the bathroom._ _

__Sam says nothing throughout the tale, though he does widen his eyes when Dean admits to telling Milton to shove numerous things up his ass. His face turns pensive when Dean relates the rest of their conversation, as close to verbatim as he can put it. When he finishes, Sam sits back in his chair._ _

__“Jesus Dean,” he finally says. “You realize that Milton could bring a complaint against you for that, right?”_ _

__“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean says, irritably dismissing Sam with a short wave of his hand. “But he said that he wouldn’t.”_ _

__Sam’s eyebrow ticks up in disbelief. “And you trust him?”_ _

__Dean stares dumbfounded at Sam. It had never occurred to him to not trust Milton. “He wouldn’t…” he begins, before he trails off. _He’s not like that_ , he wants to say but the words stick in his throat. “What’s in it for him, in the long run?” he finally settles for saying. “He puts a complaint in and it gets dragged through the School Board and yeah, maybe I get reprimanded, maybe even fired, but he ends up looking like a big baby who couldn’t take a joke.” _ _

__Sam doesn’t look wholly convinced with Dean’s reasoning but he does leave it alone, which is good enough for Dean. “So, getting to spend time with your nemesis. Maybe you can start thinking of ways to defeat him.”_ _

__Dean rolls his eyes. “You can’t defeat a robot Sam. You just need to wait for them to power down.”_ _

__Sam laughs as he rolls the empty beer bottle between his hands. “I don’t know Dean. From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound like he wants to fight. Maybe he wants to be friends?”_ _

__Dean laughs, a mite unkindly. Sam has always tried to see the best in people, with one glaring exception. But Dean won’t think about that, not when he has to convince Sam that Milton is secretly an android sent to ruin his life. “You can’t be friends with a statue Sam. I swear, you’d get more emotion out of David than out of him.”_ _

__Sam’s features go through some interesting aerobics. “Why...why would you pick that example? Out of every statue you could pick, why would you pick the giant man famous for being built and having his dick out?”_ _

__Dean’s flush has nothing to do with the muggy night. “Shut up,” he mutters. He drinks down the rest of his beer so quickly that some of it dribbles out the side of his mouth and drips onto the collar of his shirt. He hates Sam sometimes, with his smug little smile and leer._ _

__“You know, there’s a trend here,” Sam points out, gesturing with his bottle. “You telling him to shove something up his ass, you comparing him to the David…” He waggles his eyebrows at Dean and Dean contemplates pushing him out of his chair._ _

__Because yeah, he’s noticed that Milton is more than conventionally attractive. He’s got those big blue eyes, trim, muscular body, and hair that looks like someone spent all night running their fingers through it. He’d have to be blind not to notice._ _

__He’d seen it from a football field away. It had been his first annual faculty cookout, just after he'd gotten the job at Lawrence High School. Dean had been giddy with life in general: his diploma, his license, the fact that he finally had a job that he could term a career. He hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the idea of not having to pull any more twelve hour shifts at the bar, drenching himself in sweat and booze just to make crappy tips._ _

__As he’d walked through the mass of milling people at the cookout, Dean’s head had spun, not from the beer going flat in the Solo cup, but more from the dizzying array of faces and names which were being shoved at him. He’d smiled and shaken hands and the second that his back was turned, promptly forgotten everything. He knew Jo of course, and Ellen, but almost everyone else had remained a nameless, faceless blur._ _

__Until he’d seen him. Standing across the soccer field, close to the buffet tables, had been one of the most gorgeous men Dean had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. Despite the warmth of the day, he was dressed in a button down shirt and a pair of black jeans which, Dean noticed with a surge of glee, clung tightly to his hips and thighs. His thick, dark hair was fighting valiantly to stay in wild spikes, but the heat of the day had it wilting. As Dean watched, the man leaned to a woman next to him, his face hidden by her long, dark hair. She laughed and Dean’s feet had taken him towards the pair before he could think to stop himself._ _

__He walked up to the table under the pretense of getting some more food. As he approached, the conversation between the man and woman ceased, always a troubling sign. Dean pressed onward, undaunted. “Hi,” he said, turning to them like they weren’t the whole reason he’d walked over here in the first place._ _

__From this close he could see the man’s features and, whoa, he hadn’t been aware that eyes could be that blue outside of movies. Stubble dotted his jaw, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave all the way. Dean wondered what it would feel like underneath his tongue._ _

__“Hello,” the woman drawled, after a pause that lasted just a little too long to be comfortable. The man just stared at him. Dean tried not to feel like he was a specimen underneath a microscope. “And who might you be?”_ _

__Dean shifted his plate to leave his right hand free. “Dean Winchester. I’m new here.”_ _

__She shook his hand with the same intensity shown by MMA fighters before a match. “I figured,” she said, a sardonic smile dancing across her mouth. “I know that I would have noticed something like you wandering around the halls.” She pumped Dean’s hand once more, squeezing extra hard for emphasis. “Meg Masters. I teach World Religions and Psychology.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “And that’s Castiel Milton. He teaches AP US History and DE Government.”_ _

__“Nice to meet you,” Dean said, reaching out. So far, Blue Eyes seemed to be the strong but silent type. Weird, but Dean could work around that. “I’m English 11 and 12. So we’ll have some the same kids, probably.”_ _

__A faint smile crossed Castiel’s face. Dean had never seen anything like it--it happened mostly in the eyes, but his lips still moved. It was intriguing and he wanted to know what it would take to make the man smile all the way. “Indeed,” Castiel said, and _holy hell_ that was a deep voice. “Perhaps we could work together on several projects, seeing as our classes usually tend to align so closely.” _ _

__Dean might have been out of the game for a minute, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t recognize flirting when he saw it. He smiled, broad and honestly happy, as he murmured, voice heavy with insinuation, “I’d like to work with you on that and, ah, any other projects you could come up with.”_ _

__Castiel’s flush was a thing of beauty as it crept around the tips of his ears._ _

__“Hey Dean, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”_ _

__Lisa bounced up to them, sundress swaying in the slight breeze. She beamed at all of them before hooking her arm in Dean’s. “Sorry about that, I’ve just been wandering.” He turned back to Castiel and Meg. “Lisa, this is Castiel and Meg. They teach at the school too." The two of them nodded in unison, Meg going so far as to offer up a sarcastic wave.. Dean inclined his head towards them and then back to the woman at his side. "This is Lisa.”_ _

__Handshakes were distributed all around. Lisa looked at both Castiel and Meg with her customary friendliness, while Meg’s smile turned more calculating, her eyes flicking back and forth between Dean and Lisa like she’d been given two puzzle pieces that somehow didn’t coalesce. Castiel bared his teeth in a parody of a smile, miles away from the small, precious expression he'd seen not two minutes prior._ _

__“It’s nice to meet you,” Lisa said to the two others before she looked back at Dean. “Just wanted to make sure that you were doing all right, but you seem fine.” She subtly inclined her head towards Castiel and shot Dean an urgent look that he interpreted as _Jump on that like five minutes ago!_ “Anyway, I promised Jo that I would catch up with her before she left, so I’ll catch you later!” She patted Dean’s arm before she left as quickly as she’d arrived. _ _

__Dean turned back to Meg and Castiel. It could have been his imagination but he could swear that the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in eight seconds. “Interesting,” Meg murmured, before she turned to Castiel. “Clarence, I need to see a man about a unicorn. I’ll be around after.” She patted Castiel’s cheek and Dean wondered at her presumption. Wondered more at how Castiel almost seemed to lean into her touch._ _

__When he looked back at Dean, Castiel’s eyes were icy and impersonal, nothing like he’d been just minutes before. Dean laughed uncomfortably, wishing like hell that Lisa had just waited ten more minutes before coming over. Then he could have carefully dropped into the conversation that no, he hadn’t come alone, he’d just come with his good friend Lisa, just so he wouldn’t be at a function where he only knew two people._ _

__He and Castiel were on the precipice of a massive misunderstanding but before Dean could even begin to backpedal, Castiel spoke. “So, Coach Winchester, I wish you luck with your season this year.”_ _

__Dean blinked. “Coach?”_ _

__Castiel’s voice was cool and condescending. “I assume that you were hired to fulfill a coaching position of some sort or another. Basketball? Baseball?”_ _

__All right, this whole conversation had gone sideways, but there might still be hope to get things back on track. “No, no, I was hired to fulfill an English position.”_ _

__Castiel’s lips pursed, cold amusement in his eyes. “Interesting. I wouldn’t have assumed that.”_ _

__His words reached deep into Dean, scraped at something raw and vulnerable. Dad’s voice, thick and slurred as Dean told him that he was leaving, going back to school-- _It’s a pipe dream Dean-o, you know that you weren’t meant for school, not a bruiser like you. You’ll only come back in a few years begging for help_ \--_ _

__Those words had echoed throughout his time at school, had pounded his skull every time he’d filled out a job application and waited in vain for a return call. The look in Castiel’s eyes echoed the same voice which Dean heard in his head every time he dared to relax. _You’ll never be smart enough to count, you’ll never be good enough to matter_ \--_ _

__“Yeah well. You know what they say about assuming. It makes you an ass.”_ _

__Castiel blinks, which is probably his version of letting his jaw hang open in astonishment, and Dean smirks. Even the stupid guy could get one over on the smart guy every now and again. It didn’t take Castiel long to recover, however. “Yes, well. I was hired solely on my merits and not who I know.” Dean gaped at him and Castiel’s face twisted in an ugly look of satisfaction. “Word travels around fast here.”_ _

__And yeah, maybe Dean had an advantage over other applicants because he’d had both Bobby and Ellen advocating for him. When the head of the Career Academy and a twenty-five year veteran teacher both write a recommendation letter for you, it did tend to boost your chances. And if Bobby and Ellen were both close family friends? So the fuck what? He’d worked his ass off in college, had the grades and the teaching license to help prove it._ _

__And who the fuck is this asshole, to insinuate that Dean didn’t deserve his job?_ _

__His previous goodwill entirely vanished, Dean smiled, a nasty little thing. “Well, this has been utterly thrilling but I need to go home, and you know…” He let his voice trail off as he sought out Lisa in the crowd. He caught her eye and she waved at him. Dean nodded at her before turning back, catching Castiel’s eye as he winked salaciously. “Prepare for class.”_ _

__Lisa would kick his ass if she knew that he was using her this way, especially since she’d practically thrown him at Castiel. But Dean didn’t regret it, not when there was a faint flicker of emotion on Castiel’s face. Just a moment, blink and you miss it, but it was there. Then Castiel’s face changed into a smooth mask and he inclined his head towards Dean._ _

__“Good luck with your school year.”_ _

__With that, Castiel turned his back to Dean, who had to fight not to crush the flimsy Solo cup in his hand. He walked away on unsteady legs, smiling at anyone who made eye contact with him. He had to work with these people in less than a week and he didn’t want anyone else assuming that he didn’t deserve his place with them. He found Lisa talking with Jo, and tugged her away with a quick apology._ _

__“Can we go?” he murmured, low and urgent._ _

__“Dean, I thought--” Whatever Lisa was about to say died on her lips as she looked at his face. “Yeah. Of course. Just let me tell Jo what’s going on.”_ _

__Dean shook his head. “Just tell her that I’m not feeling well.” It was close enough to the truth._ _

__Lisa smiled at him and patted his cheek. “Yeah, of course. I’ll catch up.”_ _

__Dean took the out that she gave him and fled to the Impala. Stale air swept over him as he cranked the radio up to as loud as he could stand it. Later, he and Lisa will sit on the couch and she’ll shove a tub of ice-cream at him, which is undoubtedly better for him than the whisky he was thinking about downing. She’ll put on old episodes of Monty Python and Dean will laugh and they’ll reminisce about how terrible they were as a couple but how good they are at friends._ _

__Dean will tell Sam about the encounter, but he won’t tell Sam the whole story. He’ll just tell Sam that he ran into an asshole who teaches at the school, who thinks that he’s better than everyone else. He’ll tell Sam the bit about Castiel assuming that he was a coach and about his snotty remarks about Bobby and Ellen snagging the job for him. What he won’t tell Sam is his initial impression of Castiel: an unfairly good looking man who has a voice made for phone sex, who flirts like a monster but still blushes when someone flirts back. No. That, and the uncomfortable, raw place inside of him get shoved to the very back of his mind and Dean is more than happy to keep it there. He only thinks about it when he’s had too much whisky and done too much thinking. Then he’ll bring those memories out, dust them off, and hold them close to his chest, just to feel them cut into him._ _

__In Dean’s way of thinking, it’s honestly not a bad life._ _

__But he doesn’t tell Sam any of this. Instead he looks at his baby brother sitting on the patio, Dean’s patio, looking like a million bucks with the security and sense of accomplishment that his environmental lawyer job gives him. After this, Sam will go home to Jessica, his fiancee. In April, he’ll marry her and Dean will stand next to him as his best man. Tomorrow, Dean will go to work, in a job which he finds fulfillment, and then he’ll get to come home and relax._ _

__Castiel Milton doesn’t fit anywhere into any of that, so Dean just rolls his eyes and pushes his memories back down into the corner of his mind where they belong._ _

__

__~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_ _


	3. erring on the edge of safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inching closer towards friendship.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Despite all of his hangups and issues, and Dean is aware that he has plenty of both, his life is honestly good. And that’s even objectively good, not comparatively good. Though, Dean is more than aware, the life which he leads now looks like a paradise when stacked against the life he came from. It makes him proud, to look at his life and Sam’s, see how far they’ve come, how much they’ve managed to break good. 

He has a job which he not only enjoys but also gives him a steady paycheck and benefits. He has friends at this job and enjoys a decent social life. He rents a townhouse in the good part of town and spends his weekends grilling and cleaning the place, when he’s not actively enjoying his social life. His furniture is second-hand but in good shape and there’s always food in his fridge. He even manages to have a spare room which he bills as an office but which functions more as a junk room. He has enough money and spare time to keep the Impala running and in pristine condition. 

He’s close to his family: Sam and Jessica live just twenty minutes away and Dean spends almost as much time at Sam’s suburban paradise as he does at his own townhouse. Bobby and Ellen live close by and Dean visits their house weekly, sometimes for dinner, sometimes to indulge himself and help Bobby on a fiddly restoration project. 

No, there’s plenty in Dean’s life which sparks joy, and that is why he’s not going to allow himself to linger on the problem of Castiel Milton. Especially not when he’s trying to come up with projects to keep his students busy and engaged. God love his kids but sometimes they’re just too smart for their own good. 

Like today, when they keep on bugging him instead of focusing on their novels. Claire seems to be at the forefront of this movement, though Kevin is a short ways behind her. 

“How are you liking Scholastic Bowl so far, Mr. Win?” Winchester isn’t really that long of a name. There’s no need for her to shorten it. 

“It’s great. Read your book.” 

Somehow Claire manages to turn a page so loudly that Dean hears it from halfway across the room. He looks at her through narrowed eyes and she smiles angelically back at him. 

“Mr. Milton looked pissed yesterday.” 

“Don’t you have more important things to worry about than Milton’s facial expressions?” 

Claire hums as she makes the turning of another page into a Broadway worthy production. “Not really.” 

That’s it, Dean definitely needs to create a harder course of study. He’ll make these kids so busy that they don’t have the time to pee, let alone make themselves obnoxious. 

Of course, this is the time when Kevin decides to join in. “Any time you want to spill the teacher tea, we’re more than happy to listen.” 

“Tran, you are venturing dangerously close to earning your class a pop quiz.” 

Kevin doesn’t even have the good grace to appear cowed. “Collective punishment has historically failed and caused the downfall of many a dictator.” 

Dean stares at Kevin until he obediently returns to his book. “Until they bring a guillotine in here, I’ll take my chances. Now just, read your books.” 

Thankfully, silence descends on his room for the rest of the period. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Whenever Dean needs a good bitching session, he always goes to one particular room. 

Charlie is generally too good-natured to truly indulge him in a good rant. Ellen has no tolerance for people who waste her time and that includes whiners. As the school psychologist, Garth’s day is already filled with meetings, not to mention, the one time that Dean tried to rant to him, he pulled out the sock puppet that he uses with the kids. Mr. Fizzles didn’t go over so well with a 30 year old man, any better than Dean would imagine that it goes over with 15 year old kids. Jo holds the same opinion of whiners as her mother, except she has access to a gym and Dean’s not convinced that she wouldn’t have him out running laps for wasting her time. 

No, when Dean needs to bitch, he goes to the one person who will listen and who conveniently has the same planning period as him. 

“My penance comes once more this afternoon,” he says as he walks into the culinary arts classroom, which still smells faintly of burnt food. Dean wrinkles his nose. Coming in here is always a shot in the dark: sometimes he’ll be able to eat delicious leftover eclair cake and sometimes it smells like the Kitchen Nightmares version of Hannibal Lecter has been unleashed in the classroom. 

Benny Lafitte rolls his eyes and stops scrubbing at the counter top. “You ever think about just accepting this like a man?”

“No,” Dean says. Just for that smartass remark, he sits down in Benny’s chair. 

Benny came to Lawrence High in Dean’s second year. In the days before he started, there were plenty of rumors and whispers, mostly about the correlation of his appearance and chosen subject material. His hiring caused quite a stir among faculty and students alike. Dean can’t blame them. The first time he saw Benny, his eyebrows rose as well. But Benny runs the kitchens with an iron fist and spits on your traditional gender roles. The man is over six feet tall and built like a linebacker, so he can wear whatever apron he wants to. Not to mention that he’s a good teacher, a good cook, and an all around decent person. 

Except when Dean wants to bitch. And then he becomes an asshole. Because that’s just how Dean’s life goes at this point. 

“Look Dean, I don’t know exactly what you have against this whole thing. I mean it sucks having two of your afternoons yanked away but strangely enough, you haven’t once bitched about losing your time. Only one thing, well,” Benny’s face twists in contemplation, “person, you’ve complained about.” 

Dean glares at Benny. When the other teacher had been new to the school Dean had been able to tell him that Milton was a stuck up prick and didn’t deserve the time of day. However, Benny is starting his third year at the school and is therefore able to make his own opinions. Unfortunately for Dean, Benny’s opinions on Milton don’t quite sync with his. 

Most people’s opinions on Milton don’t sync with Dean’s. Which is fine, really. Because on paper, even Dean is hard pressed to not have a crush on the guy. 

Castiel Milton, who is an off-shoot of the wildly powerful, insanely wealthy Milton family. His eldest cousin Michael was elected Lawrence’s youngest mayor about sixteen years ago and has been running the city with an iron will ever since. Dean knows that another cousin, Gabriel, is some high-powered advertising executive who spends his time jet-setting around the world. For Dean, the family history begs the question of why Castiel teaches in a public high school and doesn’t just leech off of the family money. Maybe it’s just his childhood speaking, but the thought of having an unlimited amount of resources sparks something distinctly Scrooge McDuck in him. 

Saint Castiel didn’t choose to go into business, or law, or politics. He chose the route of academia, pursuing his Bachelor’s, Master’s, and finally his Doctorate in American History and Government. Dean knows this, because he read the man’s blurb on the school’s website, where teachers are required to list their degrees and certifications. He also read the article on Milton in the Lawrence Journal-World, and no he isn’t obsessed, it’s just a good idea to know your enemy. 

Dr. Castiel Milton (not that he makes anyone call him a doctor because he’s such a regular guy), upon finishing his academic career, did not choose to teach at one of the many universities vying for him. Instead, he chose to teach at Lawrence High School, where the highest honor he would accept was the chairmanship of the Social Studies Department. And that is where he has remained for six years, seemingly happy to keep on keeping on. A good little soldier for the education system. 

Dean smells a rat. No one is that good of a person, to give up wealth and power for the public education system. Despite his enjoyment of his job, it’s an overall thankless career with low pay and students who, at best, regard him as a nuisance and at worst see him as the enemy. No one would choose this if they had a lofty university teaching career available. That person would have to be a literal angel and Dean stopped believing in those around the time his mom died. 

Plus, Milton’s behavior and general assholishness show that he’s no angel. 

So Dean sits, and he bitches, and he eats the leftover peanut butter cookies from Benny’s first class because he’s always willing to take one for the team. “I’m just saying that it sucks,” he mumbles around his mouthful. Benny shoots him a disgusted look when he sprays crumbs over his desk and Dean smiles obnoxiously. Serves him right. 

“It’s a room full of kids who know weird shit that no normal human being should have in their heads and leading them is Dr. Robot, who knows more weird shit than ten of them put together. Add that to the fact that Dr. Robot actively hates me and thinks that I’m stupid and also has no problem insinuating to me that he thinks I’m stupid…” Dean shoves another cookie in his mouth to stop himself from rambling. 

“Look Dean. You know that I love you right?” Benny situates himself on the table across from Dean. His normally laughing eyes are serious and Dean eats another cookie, ignoring the fact that his mouth is dry and his stomach is starting to complain from the immense amount of sugar he is continuing to cram down his throat. 

“We’ve already talked about this, it would never work between us.” 

Benny smiles but he still looks uncharacteristically serious. “If it weren’t for your help during my first year I don’t think that I’d be here right now. Seriously brother, you were a lifesaver.” Dean looks down at the desk as his stomach squirms. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” 

“I just do my job,” Dean starts but Benny cuts him off with an impatient scoff. 

“Lots of teachers here just do their jobs. You do more than just your job. You care about your kids. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t because I’ve seen you with them. And the kids pick up on that. They love you. Even the ones that are smartasses. They’d walk through fire for you if you asked them.” 

Dean’s cheeks are hot and he really wishes that Benny would shut up but no, he just keeps going. “And you help the other teachers here. You helped me, when I was trying to find my feet here. I’ve seen you stick up for Garth at least a dozen times against Adler. You even helped that idiot Roche in the Art department when he needed it.” Benny coughs and scratches at his chin. “And I know you ain’t told me nothing about what it was like for you growing up, but I’ve met Sam several times and he’s let slip some of what you had to do.” 

Dean really, _really_ , wants Benny to shut up now but he just keeps going. “That kid doesn’t know the half of what you really did for him, does he?” 

Dean pushes away from the desk. His chest feels too tight, like his lungs have shrunk and even though he tries to breathe the oxygen isn’t quite getting through. Benny is awful, staring at him with understanding. “I didn’t mean to upset you brother but I wanted you to know. You’ve done a lot of good here. You don’t have anything that you need to be ashamed about.” 

Benny thinks he knows but he doesn’t, he couldn’t possibly. He doesn’t know about nights spent in low-rent motels where the walls were so thin that a single push would send them toppling. He doesn’t know about the fear of watching John leave, not knowing if he would come back from whatever job he’d taken on. He doesn’t know about the shameful curl in Dean’s stomach when he thought that maybe it would be better for him and Sam if John didn’t come back. He doesn’t know about the clench of hunger in his stomach, the way that the other kids in the school of the week would look at him because he only had enough clothes to fit into a duffel. Benny can’t know any of this because Dean would rather die than tell anyone. 

It would be so much easier if he could just punch Benny. But Benny is his friend and probably the closest person to him other than Sam and he’s at the point of his life where he can’t just punch his problems away. 

“I ever tell you that you’re an annoying son of a bitch?” Dean finally asks, taking a swig from his water bottle. 

Benny cracks a smile and rasps out a laugh. “I take pride in it, no doubt.” Benny has a face that was made for smiling, all broad, honest lines and good intentions. “I know what you’re worth and your brother knows what you’re worth. Maybe one day, even you’ll know what you’re worth. So really, who cares about some pretty-boy doctor?” 

Dean smiles and relaxes back into his seat. To be told that he’s worth something? Uncomfortable and highly suspect. To know that Benny’s in his corner against Milton? Priceless. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

So it’s with a renewed spirit of cooperation that Dean enters Milton’s room on Wednesday. The kids look up from where they’re setting up their buzzers and Patience even greets him. Dean waves and the kids go back to ignoring him. Dean steels himself and walks back to Milton’s desk. 

In a fantastic repeat of last week Milton is grading another stack of papers and doesn’t look up to acknowledge him as he drags a chair over and sits down. That’s fine. Dean was expecting that and he came prepared, with his own stack of essays to grade. Two can play this game and Dean has more practice at it than most. He, Sam, and Jo spent the majority of their teenage years in various tiffs with each other and Sam perfected the silent treatment to an art form. 

Now that he’s been here three times, Dean can see that practice follows the same routine: the students get their system set up and select, at random, a packet of trivia questions. One elected member of the team reads questions while the rest try to answer. The more Dean observes the team, the more he can see that each have their own particular niche. Kevin excels at complicated math problems, while Claire can somehow pull out authors’ names that even Dean has forgotten. Patience comes into her own at physics and chemistry, while Alfie and Inias both nail any history questions. Krissy and Alex round everyone out with a surprisingly wide array of knowledge encompassing a little bit of everything. 

They’re all freaking nerds but at least Dean is starting to understand the rules of this game a little better. 

And he understands the rules of the game between him and Milton because, ten minutes into their detente, Milton finally speaks. “Have a good day, Mr. Winchester?” 

Dean hides his smirk behind his papers. Milton’s game is weak. Sam once lasted three days before Jo finally hit him until he deigned to talk to them. 

“The usual.” Dean’s tempted to leave it at that but he also wants to see how far he can take this. “I did have a student tell me today that her fantasy trio was Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, and herself.” 

The low chuckle is unexpected. Startled, he glances over to Milton and sees that the other man is actually smiling. It’s a good smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and dimples appear in his cheeks. Dean’s caught up in it, and for a blessed moment wants nothing more than to see that smile again. It takes him longer than he would expect to remind himself that he doesn’t care about Milton’s laugh. 

“That...that’s quite a wish,” Milton says. His smile takes a long time to fade and even after his face returns to its normal seriousness, Dean can still see it lurking in the faint lines around his eyes. Those are his smile lines, Dean realizes with a strange lurch in his stomach. How much does Milton smile, to have those lines permanently traced onto his face? 

More importantly, why hasn’t Dean seen him smile for four years? 

“Yeah,” Dean says, aware that he needs to say _something_. “I, ah...What a thing to drop in the middle of class.” A new thought occurs to him. “God, if word gets back to Adler…”

Milton finally looks at him, his eyebrows set close together in thought. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Your kids love you.” 

That’s the second time in as many days that someone’s told him that. Dean’s confusion must show on his face because Milton’s face twitches into a faint memory of his smile. “They talk about you, during practice. They enjoy your class but more importantly, they enjoy you.” 

Heat creeps up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears and across his face. Milton’s eyes are an actual weight on him and Dean thinks that his spine just might shatter underneath them. “That’s…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m sarcastic and I let them say ‘Hell’ and ‘Slut’ in class as long as it’s context of literature.”

“No Dean, it’s more than that. You treat them like humans. You care about their problems and they feel like they can trust you.” Dean chances a look at Castiel and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. For years he’s been accustomed to the marble face, the robot coolness, the ice-blue eyes glaring at him. Now, the warmth and sincerity on Castiel’s face threaten to shatter him. “You’d be surprised at how much that matters to them, being treated like they matter.”

Dean coughs and shifts in his chair. When he wanted a conversation he didn’t want this. He wanted something light and breezy, about as interesting as the evening weather forecast. He didn’t want Castiel to reach into his skull and root around. 

The silence they fall into isn’t the razor edged one of before. Instead, it’s almost comfortable. If it weren’t for the buzzers and the shouting then Dean could almost get lost in the constant scratch of Castiel’s pen across his papers. 

The questions continue and Dean remains mystified by them, the answers, as well as the students who do the answering. Most of the questions ask about things that he’s fairly certain he was never taught. But what Dean finds the most interesting is that while the kids seem to have their specialized areas of knowledge, Castiel seems to know almost everything. 

He notices it almost by accident. Castiel’s not loud, in fact the buzzers and students drown him out, which is why it takes Dean so long to notice. It’s only in a rare moment of quiet, when the whole team is stumped that Dean hears him murmur, “Thomas Robert Malthus.” 

“And that’s time,” Inias says from the podium. “The correct answer is Malthus.” 

There’s a course of groans and Krissy says, “Yes, of course, he was my second guess,” but Dean ignores them in favor of staring at Castiel. 

“Why would someone have that information in their brain?” 

Castiel looks genuinely confused. “My interests are varied.” 

Dean snorts. “I have varied interests too and I wouldn’t know Malthus if he passed me by on the street.” 

Castiel tilts his head but this time it looks a little less Terminator and a little more confused adult male. “He died in 1834; no doubt you would at least take notice if he passed you on the street.” 

Dean stares at him in astonishment before a laugh bursts out of him. “Did you just…” He lowers his voice, aware that he’s managed to catch the team’s attention. “Jesus Christ, Castiel Milton just made a joke. I think that I might have to call down administration. Won’t they fire you for this?”

Castiel’s face twists in displeasure but he can’t quite hide the sly tilt of his eyes or the faint, pleased set of his shoulders. “I do have a sense of humor Dean. I’m not dead.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean turns back to his papers but now that he knows what he’s listening for, he hears it: at almost every question Castiel whispers out an answer. Not showing off, not gloating, just...taking pleasure in knowledge. Ninety percent of the time he’s right. If it were forty-five minutes earlier, Dean would say that the other man is showing off, except he’s almost certain that Castiel doesn’t want him to hear. But Dean has better hearing than most and so he catches almost all of it. On the rare occasions that Castiel is stumped Dean wants to gloat but something restrains him. Maybe it’s just his common decency. Maybe it’s the memory of Castiel’s laugh, low and throaty. 

Dean listens to the next clue. Despite his initial misgivings, and the fact that he still is stumped by over half of the clues, there’s a certain thrill in listening to these. When he gets one right he has to hide his face behind his papers, lest everyone in the room see his triumphant grin. 

Inias reads, “This character's clock is frozen around 11, making it always snack time. This character once ate his friend’s birthday present, but covered up for it by giving that friend ‘a useful pot to put things in’. This character invents a game in which objects are dropped into a river and whoever’s appears downstream first, wins. In one story, this character disguises himself as a black raincloud by rolling around in some mud and using a balloon to hover, while in another story he sings a lullaby to make a colony of bees go to sleep so that he can eat their honey. For ten points, name this ‘willy nilly silly old bear’, the best friend of Christopher Robin.” 

Several hands push frantically on the buttons of the buzzers but Dean is more interested in Castiel. The other man sits at his desk, a puzzled look on his face as he taps his chin twice. Dean gapes because, _really_? 

“Winnie the Pooh man,” he says, a second before Inias calls on Alex for the answer. Castiel turns to him, lips pursed in contemplation. Dean honestly cannot believe that he has to explain this but he does anyway. “Winnie the Pooh? Pooh Bear? Hundred Acre Woods?” Castiel’s face is as blank as it was the first time Dean spoke. “Man, are you honestly telling me that you don’t know who freaking Winnie the Pooh is?” 

Castiel frowns. “Judging from the nonsensical nature of the name and the anecdotes offered in the clue, I would assume that it’s a character from some folk tale or children’s story. No doubt one which has been widely televised, as shown by your response and the team’s willingness to answer.” 

Dean must look stupid, with his jaw hanging open but he can’t stop himself. “What the...all right that’s it. Excuse me.” Before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches over Castiel and grabs his laptop. He pulls up Google and types, before turning the screen back to Castiel. “That. That is Winnie the Pooh.” 

Dozens of images of the iconic bear fill the screen. Dean sees at least three of these images each day, on clothing and various merchandise but Castiel studies the images like they’re clues from _The DaVinci Code_. It’s weird and if Dean didn’t hate him, he would say that it’s almost endearing. 

“I’ve seen this bear before,” Castiel finally offers. 

“You’ve seen this...of course you’ve seen the bear before! It’s on every preteen girl’s bookbag!” 

“I did wonder at their fondness for an obese stuffed bear.” Castiel reads the brief caption underneath the photo. “Ah. The story was picked up and widely distributed by Disney. No wonder there’s so much merchandise.”

“How can you not know freaking Pooh. I can’t even…”

“There were not many opportunities for me to watch cartoons.” 

And there, that one sentence tells Dean more about Castiel than a hundred observations or newspaper articles ever could. What must a person’s childhood be like that they never even watched an episode of Winnie the Pooh? Dean never intentionally watched it but when he was flipping through the channels at motels it always seemed like there was an episode of Pooh playing somewhere. He always switched it to Scooby-Doo because, let’s face it, Daphne, but still. For Castiel to not know...

“Yeah well, you weren’t missing much.” Dean has no idea whether or not that’s true but there’d been something empty in Castiel’s voice before. 

Castiel huffs a faint sound of laughter and turns towards Dean. It’s not until he glances up that Dean realizes how close they’re standing to each other. This close, Dean can smell Castiel’s cologne, can see the faint lines in his forehead. If he really wanted to, Dean could count each one of Castiel’s ridiculously long eyelashes. 

He sits back in his chair so fast that his ass stings from impact. If Castiel notices anything unusual then he at least has the good grace not to say anything. It’s something else decent from him and Dean has to repeat, like a mantra, _You hate this man, he’s an asshole, he’s a smug, uptight, prick and you hate him_. Maybe if he repeats it enough he can believe it with the same vitriol that he did three weeks ago. 

When practice ends the team packs the buzzers away into a box and puts the box back in a small cabinet at the rear of Castiel’s room. Patience and Alfie both wish them a good night and Claire even bestows a quick peace sign upon them before leaving. Dean watches them go with a smile on his face. 

“You know,” he says, not sure why he’s telling Castiel this, “they like you too.” 

A small, startled noise rumbles in Castiel’s throat. Dean doesn’t dare look at him, too afraid that underneath that intense stare he’ll lose his nerve. “The students I mean. They talk about you too, mention how much you love what you teach. Other teachers like you too.” He thinks about Charlie’s repeated assertions that Castiel, while technologically clueless, is always willing to listen to new ideas, Benny’s urging that Dean really should try to bury the hatchet and just talk, and Garth’s counseling of ‘You never understand what someone is going through until you walk a mile in their shoes!’. 

The click of Castiel’s swallow is deafening in the silent room. Dean stares pointedly at the board at the front of the room as he listens to Castiel breathe. “But not you, right?” 

At the bleak humor in Castiel’s voice, Dean has to face him. Upon looking at the other man’s face Dean makes a mental note that personal likes and dislikes aside, he has got to bring the man to game night. Man has a poker face to rival Keanu Reeves. Still, there’s something lurking at the corners of his eyes, something that Dean doesn’t want to examine too quickly. 

“Nope,” Dean says, but the word sounds brittle and false, even to his ears. “Not even a little bit.” 

Even as he says the words, he knows that he’s lying. 

“Well.” That something still lingers on Castiel’s face and Dean wants it to vanish. However, he has no idea how to do that without doing something incredibly stupid, so he just grabs his bag and hoists the strap over his shoulder. 

“Have a good night Castiel.” 

“You as well, Dean.” 

It’s only when he’s sliding into the front seat of Baby and feeling the rumble of the engine through the seat that he replays the afternoon. His brain comes to a screeching halt. 

Since when is Milton ‘Castiel’? 

And since when does Castiel call him ‘Dean’? 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benny is a beautiful, wonderful character and I will fight for him all day long. Like almost everyone on the show, Benny deserved better.


	4. songs from the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby, Balthazar, and the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly a transition chapter to move from Part I into Part II. I promise, things will start heating up next chapter. 
> 
> Also, in case anyone is confused, in this universe, Bobby and Ellen live together and for all intents and purposes are married, until you ask them about their relationship. And then Bobby will blush and Ellen will snap and they will both be mad at you. Just don't poke the bear(s). 
> 
> Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The last Sunday of September finds Dean bent at the waist underneath the hood of a ‘69 Mustang. She’s bright red and while she’ll never be as beautiful as his baby, she’s still a fine looking lady. Still, every lady needs a tune-up, which is why Dean is checking the lines and belts while the sun beats down on the back of his neck with a vengeance. 

Dean’s back pops as he straightens. He winces at the sound. Much as he’d like otherwise, he’s getting older every year. His back is the enemy more often than not these days, and his knee, hurt when he was a teenager, is a fiddly thing during the winter. Still, Dean thinks, as he twists his head to try and pop his neck, out of all the problems that he could have, stiff joints are a small price to pay. 

“You done yet? Or you planning on asking her to prom?” 

Dean smiles at the gruff voice as he gently closes the hood. Once everything is back where it should be, he gently pats the hood. “You know that I’m not the unfaithful type.” He leans back against the hood and accepts the beer Bobby offers. 

Bobby leans against one of the rust bucket cars in his yard and sips his own drink. Neither of them speaks as they drink, indulging in a years long ritual. John might have taught Dean most of what he knew about cars but Bobby had given him a purpose, a reason to use that knowledge. 

Bobby had given Dean a hell of a lot more than that, but acknowledging that was a minefield that Dean was never going to navigate. 

“Ellen’s in the living room talking with the rest of them about wedding plans.” 

Dean peered at Bobby over his bottle. “She living vicariously through Sammy and Jess?” 

Bobby grimaced. “She doesn’t want a wedding, not really. Besides. Could you ever see her coming down the aisle in some poofy dress?”

Dean considers. In almost twelve years he had yet to see Ellen dressed in anything other than jeans and a comfortable shirt. She broke her dress code for the sake of her job at the school but that was the most she would capitulate. The thought of her wearing some of the monstrosities which Jess had found was laughable. Dean grinned at the thought. 

“Maybe she’ll want you to wear the poofy dress.” Bobby growled a warning. “No, I’m sure she’ll find something that highlights your figure.” 

“Boy if you don’t stop.” Bobby might threaten but Dean’s never been afraid of him, never for a second. “And I’d wipe that smile off your face if I were you. You haven’t seen what Sam’s been trying to put you in.” 

“Ah, I know that I’m already going to have to wear some kind of monkey suit. Flower in the lapel, the whole nine yards.”

“Oh, you hope it’s just that. Last I heard, Jess was leaning towards lavender suits. Pastel pink for the shirts.” 

Dean squints at the older man. Bobby has to be fucking with him. Yeah, Jess has been a little weird about some of this wedding stuff but, taste in men aside, Dean’s always trusted her judgement. There’s no way that she would ever consider something that hideous. 

Unless she had Jo Harvelle, actual demon of hell, perched on her shoulder, coaching her through her most vulnerable moments. 

Dean’s heart sinks. Jo couldn’t be that cruel. She’s awful but there are depths to which no man, or woman, will sink to and surely this has to be one of them. Plus, he thinks with renewed hope, Jo is part of the wedding party. She would never suggest something which would make her look bad. No, Bobby is just fucking with him, which makes him a dick, but it also means that Dean has to murder four less family members. 

Bobby is smiling when Dean looks back at him, broad and genuinely happy. Dean knows how he feels. It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, he’s sitting on a beauty of a car, and he can smell the pot roast cooking from the open kitchen window. Best of all, he’d spied the makings for one truly epic apple pie in the kitchen. 

“It’s funny ain’t it,” Bobby says before he flings his empty bottle somewhere into the snarl of dead and decaying cars in his yard. If Sam were here, no doubt he would bitch at Bobby for desecrating the environment with his litter, but it’s Dean here with him, and Dean figures, what the hell, if Bobby wants to ruin his own yard, then that’s his business. 

“Sammy getting married? It’s funny that the hypnosis has lasted this long. Don't know when Jess is going to break free and realize that he's hideous.” 

“Real cute. Naw,” Bobby coughs, lifts his hat to let some of his sweat-damp hair resettle on his head. “It’s just funny to think about you boys the first time you came here. You told me then that you’d be all respectable and teaching those brats at the school and I’d have an actual family in my living room planning a damn wedding…” Bobby laughs, rueful and amazed. “I’d have pumped you full of few rounds because you’d have to be lying to me.” 

The very first time Dean came to Bobby’s house, he was eight and Sam was four and John had just about grown sick of both of them. Bobby was described to them as simply ‘a friend’. John had many friends, strewn throughout the country, none of whom were willing to say just quite how they knew John. 

Bobby was a drunk, and a mean one at that. Not violent, not like Dean had seen John become, but surly. The first time Dean had come downstairs while Bobby was halfway through a bottle of shine, the man had just glared at him before snarling “The hell you looking at boy?”

Dean, unintimidated even as a child, had folded his arms across his chest and stared, his upper lip curling as he looked at the person who was supposed to be taking care of them. “Some old drunk who doesn’t care enough about anything to be any use.” 

If he’d spoken to John like that, then he would have caught the back of his hand. If he’d spoken to any of his dad’s other “friends” like that, he would have caught worse. But Bobby just stared at him, like Dean had just given him a revelation, before setting his glass down on the table. Dean stared back, ready for the blow, for the explosion of temper and fury. For the glass to be thrown, probably at him, for Bobby to call John and tell him to come and get his shitty kids. 

But Bobby had just kept on staring at him, and eventually Dean had become uncomfortable. If the man was going to do something then he should have done it by now. But Bobby just sat there. He looked older than Dean had first thought, his hat more worn, beard more streaked with grey. 

“Get the hell back to bed boy. You’ve got school in the morning.” That had been all that Bobby had told him and Dean, happy to be out of there, gladly scampered back up the stairs and into the room that he was sharing with Sam. He tucked himself back into bed, underneath musty, threadbare sheets, and tried to sleep. 

He’d managed a few, restless hours and in the morning, had come downstairs unsure of what he would find. Bobby had been there, with a plate of lukewarm, soggy eggs for their breakfast, the same as it had been the entire time they’d been there. What had been missing, however, was the ever present bottle by his side, and the sharp, acrid smell of alcohol wafting up from his coffee. 

The next morning, the eggs had been hot and firm, and there had been bacon to go along with them. The morning after that, the dirty dishes had magically disappeared from the sink and it looked like the kitchen floor had even been swept. By the time John had returned for them, a week and a half later, Bobby had graduated to making chili for them in the evening and watching movies with them at night. 

The next time they’d visited, Bobby had a job at the Career Academy, teaching Auto Shop, and his house had just been cluttered, not filthy. The time after that, he had Ellen dropping by to help cook and, Dean suspected, from the looks they gave each other as he was going up the stairs to bed, other activities not involved with typical housewifery. 

Going to Bobby’s house had become like going to summer camp, albeit a camp where the counselor insisted that he and Sam do their homework and their chores, and then go to bed on time. Dean loved every second of it: helping Bobby with restoration projects in the evening, learning how to cook from Ellen, sniping back and forth with Jo. Loved it so much in fact, that twelve years ago, when he and Sam were desperate and scared, his brain and feet had automatically taken them to Bobby’s house. Bobby just opened the door, saw their faces peering up at him, and opened the door. 

Dean’s never forgotten that, how Bobby took two kids who were less than worthless, and turned them into citizens. How Bobby turned his life around, partly for himself, also partly for them. It’s a debt that Dean’s never going to be able to repay, despite Bobby’s repeated assertions that there is no debt. 

“You and me both,” is all Dean can think of to say. How can he explain how he’s been blessed? Why does he get a second chance when so many other kids in his situation were lost? Maybe God gave him a shitty past life, or he did some great service to the world and this is his reward. Maybe he’s just lucky. 

“You hear from him lately?” 

There’s no need to ask who Bobby is referring to. There’s only one person who gets that particular tone of anger, regret, worry, and fear from Bobby. 

Dean still hasn’t asked how Bobby and his dad knew each other. As far as he’s concerned, it will go down in history as one of the great unsolved mysteries, like Bigfoot, or the disappearance of Amelia Earhart. All he knows is that John Winchester can get a reaction out of Bobby unlike few other people can. John Winchester has that effect on people. 

“Nope,” Dean says, pushing off the hood of the Mustang. Desperate for something to do with his hands, he checks the doors, the paint job, hell, anything to avoid looking at Bobby. “Last I heard from him was last Christmas. Well, he called around January eighth and said that it was his Christmas phone call. Forgot our birthdays.”

Dean’s not sure what hurts more: the fact that his father consistently misses important events in his life or the fact that Sam doesn’t even ask for his father anymore. What might hurt the worst is the fact that Dean’s stopped looking for his father to even remember that he has two children. 

Bobby’s face twists in sympathy, though to the uninitiated, it looks like anger. “You can’t blame yourself for what your Daddy does,” like he knows that is exactly what Dean was planning on doing. “He’s a grown man and he made his choices.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, resisting the urge to slam his fist onto the trunk of the Mustang. “I know that, Bobby.” 

Obviously sensing the danger, Bobby holds his hands up in classic ‘Don’t Shoot’ behavior. “Ellen had the fixings for some kind of pie. Don’t know if you want to come in and help her with or not.” 

Dean smiles faintly, glad for the transparent change of subject. “You saying that I know how to make a pie better than Ellen?”

Bobby scoffs. “I’d never say that you know how to do anything better than her. But you do get more emotionally invested in the process than her.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean starts towards the house, sniffing the roast all the way. “Love me some pie.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

The end of the month means that it’s time for the leadership meeting. All the department chairs, gather in one place so that they can be lectured about everything that they’re failing to do and hopefully, receive enlightenment for how to fix their wrongdoings. If anyone were to ask Dean’s opinion, which he notes that they do not, he would tell them that the leadership meeting is a supreme waste of time, like most meetings. But their principal, Naomi Goddard, is a stickler for doing things the proper way, so every month they gather for their scolding. 

Dean and Charlie arrive together. As chair of the English Department, Dean is required to be there and Charlie, while not heading up any particular department, will no doubt be asked to comment on something due to her status as the IT coordinator. The head of the science department, the deeply unsettling Mr. Crowley, is already present, as is the also upsetting head of the Math Department, Uriel Heywood. The two of them give Adler a run for his money in the ‘Most Despised Faculty Member’ category. 

Castiel sits near them, face impassive as usual. Dean catches his eye as he walks into the room and Castiel acknowledges him by a slight inclination of his head. Dean nods back at him and squashes down the little bit of warmth curling in his stomach at the almost imperceptible smile which graces Castiel’s face. _Stop that_ , he tells his brain, though, like the bad brain that it is, it immediately fucks off and starts analyzing that small quirk of Castiel’s lips. 

Dean puts Castiel from his mind for the moment, and grabs a seat as far removed from the action as he can possibly remain. He’s here in these meetings because he is required to be, not because he wants to contribute. When he first started attending he offered a few ideas, all of which were immediately shot down, so now Dean just keeps his head down and struggles through the torture as best he can. 

The chair of the Fine Arts Department, Balthazar Roche, strolls in right at 3:45, face split into a wide, smarmy smile, like they should applaud in his presence. Dean could almost like Roche, if it weren’t for the fact that the man has an ego the size of the Superdome. Also, no man’s V-neck should reach quite that low on the chest. This is a school for god’s sake, not a European opium den.

Balthazar sits next to Castiel and immediately drags Castiel’s attention to something on his phone. From his vantage point, Dean can see an actual smile on Castiel’s face as he nods and murmurs something to Balthazar. Whatever Castiel says must be unfairly hilarious, judging by the way Balthazar throws his head back in laughter. Dean scowls. He’s heard Castiel’s attempt a joke. He’s not that funny. 

Dean’s brain, still happily fucking up his life, decides to analyze how closely Balthazar and Castiel sit together and the comfortable way that their knuckles bump together when Castiel reaches for Balthazar’s phone. Dean wonders if he can possibly get an upgrade, or a newer model brain. One that isn’t so focused on _completely irrelevant shit_. 

Jo shows up late, just after Goddard has welcomed them and slides into the seat which Dean has saved for her. She always shows up late, like she’s daring Goddard to say something to her. Goddard still has yet to rise to the bait, even after a year, and by now Dean is interested to see whose iron will breaks first. 

Halfway through the meeting, Dean fights back a yawn. So far nothing has been said which directly impacts him and it’s a constant struggle to not continuously check his phone for the time. Next to him, Jo is actively falling asleep, her eyelids fluttering closed, only to snap open ten seconds later. Dean repeatedly elbows her and Charlie takes to running her water bottle across the back of Jo’s neck, for all the good it does. If Jo wants to fall asleep, she will. 

Dean only perks up when he hears a disturbance in the force. “...which is why we’ve decided to let the AP and DE instructors for seniors collaborate for their senior projects. It’s important to us that we teach our students cross-curricular skills in order to better prepare them for collegiate careers.” 

This will negatively affect Dean in some way, shape, or form. He just hasn’t figured out how yet. He hesitates to ask for Goddard to repeat herself, seeing as how everyone else is listening intently. Castiel even has his elbows on the table and is nodding along intently to what Goddard says. That, right there, is why Dean spent the majority of these meetings silently hating him. Who actually shows enthusiasm for these meetings? 

“Instructors, I’ll let you decide who you would like to collaborate with on this project. I would like the proposals emailed to me by no later than Thanksgiving break. You’ll have to give your students plenty of time to work on them. We intend to showcase these projects to the Department of Education at their end of year visit.”

And that...That is just great. This is probably why Dean should pay attention during these meetings. He chances a look at Charlie. From her expression he can tell that she at least was being a good professional and listening. He’ll get the notes from her after the meeting. 

Perhaps in mockery of Dean’s renewed attention, Naomi refuses to say anything of importance for the rest of the meeting. Fucking typical. She wraps up twenty minutes later, after a long-winded rant about student behavior, which ultimately boils down to ‘You’re not doing your jobs and you’re letting these children run roughshod all over you. You must discipline them better’. Not a sentiment which Dean agrees with but from the nods of Crowley and Uriel, he can tell that Goddard’s protests have not fallen entirely on deaf ears. 

Castiel looks more troubled than supportive and Dean tries not to be pleased by that fact. 

The meeting adjourns and Charlie grabs Dean by the elbow and hustles Dean out of the conference room. He’s doesn’t understand the haste of her exit but if it gets him away from the office faster, he’s not complaining. Already the other teachers are starting to talk behind them. 

“You need to go to Milton’s room ASAP,” Charlie tells him. 

“What was Goddard talking about? I got the gist of it but I wasn’t paying attention all the way.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to pay attention during one of these things?” 

“Honestly, probably.”

This time when Charlie rolls her eyes a low growl of frustration escapes her. “Forget killing you, you’re killing me! I know that I’m not the model of responsibility but at least I don’t have any classes to teach!” She walks backwards down the hall so that she can be face to face with him while still scolding him. “Goddard wants to change the way we do our AP senior projects. Instead of having the seniors focus on just one area of curriculum, she wants to combine areas of study.”

“So you could combine Physics and Math, come up with a new project that combines elements of both of those classes.” Charlie throws her hands up in the air like she’s witnessed a miracle, which is just really too sarcastic. 

“And that’s why you need to go to Milton’s room right now,” she urges, and it’s only then that Dean realizes where she’s been leading him. “You need to snag him before anyone else does.”

“Good grief Charlie, it’s not like he’s the last jug of milk at the grocery store.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure Winchester. You were too out of it to notice but Crowley, Heywood, and Roche were all eyeing him. You can bet that they’re going to try to work with him.”

“AP Art and DE Government? How could you even put those two together?”

Charlie shrugs. “I don’t know how and you don’t know how but I bet for damn sure that if you gave Milton that problem he could probably figure out a proposal in about an hour. Have it typed and ready in two.” 

“Still. There are easier connections to make. Doesn’t explain why they’d all go for Milton.” 

“Are you kidding?” Charlie laughs, not unkindly. “Maybe you’ve just been spending too much time hating him to realize but Milton is like, genius levels smart. You know he’s been published in the time that he’s been working at Lawrence High?” Dean hadn’t and he spares a second to worry for his stalking skills. “Roche probably just wants to work with him because they’re friendly and it beats having to combine AP Art and AP Spanish but Crowley and Heywood? They don’t want to spend the rest of their careers here at Lawrence High and if they can add a project co-designed by Milton to their C.V., then they’re both one step closer to writing their ticket out of here.”

Dean slows down as he considers. If he had his choice of teachers to co-design a project with, he would obviously choose Ellen: she teaches in his content area and she’s experienced enough to navigate any unforeseen pitfalls with ease. But Ellen isn’t one of his choices and Dean has to admit that working with Castiel certainly sounds less painful than working with Crowley or Uriel. At least he can pretend to get along with Castiel. 

For reasons that he can’t really explain, it also bothers him to think about Crowley and Uriel using Castiel just to advance their own careers. There’s something slimy and dirty about that, especially when he considers Castiel’s honest interest in his students. At least if Castiel works with him then they’ll be doing this project for the good of the students and not just to pad a resume. 

Charlie smiles when Dean starts to walk again. “That’s definitely your decisive walk,” she says, matching his pace. “Glad that you saw things from my way of thinking.” 

“You made some good points,” Dean says, unwilling to acknowledge the fact that Charlie was right. The sly smile on her face says that he doesn’t have to say it out loud; that she already knows that she’s always right. 

Charlie peels off to go back to her lair and leaves Dean to walk the last hallway by himself. Castiel’s door is open when Dean approaches and from inside the room, he hears voices. As he pops his head inside he sees that Charlie was right: Balthazar sits on a desk, swinging his legs in no discernible rhythm. He’s gesturing animatedly and only stops when he catches sight of Dean in the doorway. 

“Something that we can help you with, Winchester?” Dean knows that there are students and not a few faculty members, who are enamored of the art teacher’s accent and smile, not to mention his very Eurotrash way of dressing. Dean has never counted himself one of them. In fact, if he could wipe that smug little smirk off of Roche’s face then he would do so. 

“I need to talk to Castiel.” 

Balthazar's eyes light up with something unkind but Dean turns to Castiel. On the surface, Castiel looks bored but after a few weeks with him Dean is learning how to read his microexpressions. If Dean is right, then what he’s seeing in Castiel’s eyes is interest and curiosity. 

“Well, talk away; don’t mind little old me.” Dean wasn’t aware that anyone could lounge on the rickety desks but damned if Balthazar doesn’t manage to do just that. 

“We can finish this conversation later,” Castiel says. There’s a strange moment that passes between Castiel and Balthazar. Though neither one of them speaks or even really changes their expressions, Dean has the impression that an entire conversation takes place between the two. He’s able to do the same thing with Sam, but he never figured that he would be on the outside looking in. 

Whatever happens between them, Balthazar smiles and unfolds himself from the desk. “Well, good luck with whatever the two of you are planning. Cassie, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dean moves back against the doorframe as Balthazar passes him. The smug little jerk almost looks likes he’s going to reach up and pat him but thinks twice of it. 

Castiel moves around the room, packing various papers into his bag. “What’s on your mind?” 

Dean has just one thing on his mind at the moment. “Cassie?” _You wouldn’t let me call you Cas but you’ll take Cassie from Eurovision_? 

A faint pink tinge appears along Castiel’s cheekbones. “Balthazar can be...irreverent.” Dean quirks an eyebrow. To his credit, Castiel doesn’t look away from him as he says, “We also have a long-standing friendship.” 

The verbal slap is light but it’s still present: _Balthazar is a friend and you are not. Therefore, Balthazar is afforded certain liberties which you are not_. And yeah, Dean already knew that but there’s a difference between knowing something in theory and seeing cold hard proof. 

But then Dean reminds himself that he doesn’t really want to be friends with Castiel. He wants to design a project that isn’t going to make either his life or his students’ lives miserable. He chose Castiel because Castiel is the only other AP teacher that he doesn’t want to punch in the face. 

“So about the senior project,” Dean starts, and he used to consider himself suave, but right now he’s stammering like a bad prom date. 

Castiel hums as he zips up his bag. “I wasn’t sure whether or not you heard that part of the meeting. You seemed to be rather...indisposed.” The shadow of a smile flits across his face, and Dean’s surprised to find that the shape of it is not cruel, but amused. 

It restrains his first impulse, which was to bristle and snap at a perceived slight. But goddamn, Castiel just keeps on trying to shatter any perception that Dean had of himself as a good judge of character. “Charlie told me,” Dean says, situating himself on a desk. He sits on the desk, like a goddamn adult. He doesn’t treat it like a throne. “And I thought...I thought that Government and English would be the easiest links.” 

Castiel walks past Dean to erase his whiteboard. “You are the fourth person to proposition me within the last ten minutes.” 

Dean blinks as his cheeks heat. Does he...he didn’t just...Castiel is a smart guy so he has to know the connotations of the word he just used. “I’m not...don’t make it sound like that, man!” Castiel turns around and looks questioningly at Dean. “Proposition makes it sound like I’m trying to pick up a $20 hooker.”

“I would hope that I would be worth more than twenty dollars.” Dean’s gaze snaps towards Castiel, and judging from the tense set of his shoulders, Castiel is just as surprised by his words as Dean. There’s no way that either of them can pretend they didn’t hear Castiel saying something flirtatious, not when the silence drags on this long. Castiel covers with a strangled cough but the image is in Dean’s mind forever: Castiel on the side of a road, his eyes huge in the streetlights, leaning in through the Impala’s passenger window. Maybe he’d pout those lips at him, run his tongue along his lower lip. Look at him through his eyelashes. Ask Dean to open the door for him in that voice that sounds like the best kind of honeyed whisky. Slide into the car, the leather upholstery creaking under him as he moves closer...

_What the FUCK? What the fucking fuck_?

Dean’s eyes fly towards Castiel, sure that his thoughts are smeared across his face. Thankfully, Castiel is focused on writing the next day’s agenda on his board and can’t see the guilty shine of Dean’s eyes. Though the current view of Castiel isn’t helping Dean clear his mind, not when he can see just how the material of Castiel’s dark pants stretches across his hips and ass--

Charlie had said that the man had a fine ass. Now that he’s actually looking, Dean can’t disagree. 

Oh God, he’s going to need about fifty drinks to wash the last ten minutes from his mind. Jesus. He might not even come in tomorrow. Does his insurance policy even cover the immense amounts of counseling that he’s going to need to get these images out of his brain? 

“Winchester. Dean. Are you listening?” Oh fuck, he’s been caught. Oh no. Oh, Castiel might not have reported him for sexual harassment last week but it’s one thing to say something in a moment of anger and it’s another to be undressing your colleague in the middle of his room. 

“Sorry. Had a lot of...stuff on my mind.” Dean’s smile is on the wrong side of manic but maybe Castiel really is an android because he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Well, I told Crowley, Uriel, and Balthazar that I would let them know because I was hoping…” Castiel looks down at his feet and addresses the floor as he says, “I was hoping that we could design the project together.” 

Dean can’t stop the happy little jump of his heart. He tells himself that the only reason he’s happy is because now his job is a little easier. He knows that’s not the only reason. 

“Of course, if you don’t want to, I’d more than understand,” Castiel says, after Dean doesn’t say anything. His robot voice is back in full force as he tells Dean, “I just thought that since our subjects veer so closely together, it might make sense to make use of that. But if you’d rather work with someone else I’d more than understand--”

“No!” Dean says, his voice sharper than he originally intended. “God no. I can’t stand to be in the room with Crowley for longer than five minutes. Spending almost the rest of the year with him…” His shudder of disgust is not entirely an act. 

Castiel’s smile is inscrutable. “Do you hate all the faculty at this school?” 

Dean blinks, not understanding the question at first. “I don’t...I don’t hate anyone here.” It’s not a lie. Dean learned long ago that spending his energy in hatred was just an endless cycle that ultimately resulted in nothing. 

Then the unspoken truth behind Castiel’s words sinks in and Dean blanches. “I don’t...I don’t hate you.” The upwards quirk of Castiel’s eyebrow lacks its usual sardonic punch. “Seriously.” Castiel still looks skeptical and before he gives his mouth permission to speak, Dean is vomiting out the truth which, what the hell brain? 

“I don’t hate you.” He doesn’t. He acknowledged that the second he'd heard Castiel laugh. Maybe even before that. Maybe when Castiel had every reason to get him fired and didn’t, just because it wasn’t the right thing to do. “I mean, sometimes you can be stuck-up and you’re a know-it-all, and I’m not sure if you have any actual emotions that weren’t programmed into you by the manufacturer but…” 

Dean trails off, his mouth dry. By now, Castiel has given up all pretense of writing on the board and instead stares at him, arms lax by his side. His eyes are huge, wide in surprise, and his mouth is open in shock. Dean’s never seen him look so unguarded before and the sight sends strange little squiggles of emotion through him. 

In for a penny, in for a pound, Ellen always says, plus now that he’s started, Dean can’t stop the truth vomit. “And yeah, I mean...You’re grumpy and you call me stupid at least once a week but I’ve never seen you be rude or hateful to your students. And Charlie likes you and even Benny likes you and he’s a grumpy son of a bitch so…” Too late, Dean realizes that he’s rambling and with an effort, he shuts his mouth. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that you might not be my favorite person here but I don’t hate you. You’re a damn sight better than Crowley at least.” 

Castiel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s an honest look, honest and sad. “That’s not a high threshold, to be considered better than Crowley, but I’ll take it.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, edging towards the door. There’s something dangerous in this classroom, lurking just at the corners of Dean’s vision. He doesn’t dare to face this thing head on because turning and looking at it would mean acknowledging it. Somehow Dean knows that to acknowledge this unspoken thing would be disastrous. 

So he backs towards the door. “I’m glad that we got that cleared up.” He lifts his hand in a wave. “I’ll uh, I’ll work on some ideas and get them over to you later in the week. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow!”

He’s already halfway out the door but he can still hear Castiel’s “Good night Dean,” as clear as though the man were standing right next to him. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	5. awake my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Work has been kicking my butt lately and I've been too tired to do much of anything. Also, this is probably the most important chapter yet and I wanted to make sure that I got it exactly the way that I wanted it. 
> 
> Also, we start to earn our rating! Hooray!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With little fanfare, September slips into October. The dog days, with their long, humid nights, pass and give way to the crisp, sharp feel of autumn. Leaves start to fall and blanket the ground and Dean breathes easier. He loves summer, if for no other reason than the thought of zero responsibilities ahead of him, but after the heat, he craves the relief of fall.

Of course, his opinion of fall changes when the heavens decide to open up and unleash a downpour on them. Unlike summer rains, fall rains in Lawrence are miserable and vindictive, pelting bodies with drops that easily soak through clothes to skin. Dean shivers just looking out the window. 

Of course he hadn’t brought an umbrella. Why would he? It was clear this morning and weather reports are for the weak. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean flips the collar of his jacket and exits from the school into the pelting rain. It’s just as cold as he feared and within seconds, his jacket is soaked through to his skin and dripping water from the hems. It’s a long walk to his car and while he could run, what’s the point? He’s already soaked through to the skin. 

Dean spares a moment to think uncharitably of Scholastic Bowl and Castiel. If it hadn’t been for stupid practice then he would have been home long before the rain started. But no, Castiel wanted to hold practice half an hour longer than usual because their first competition was next week. Dean hadn’t seen the point and had said so to Castiel but, in true Castiel fashion, he had ignored Dean’s complaining and chosen to do exactly what he wanted. 

“The team needs the extra practice Dean,” he repeated, dropping his voice to a lower pitch. “They’re not operating at the full cohesiveness of which they’re capable. I know you believe it’s unnecessary but I think that this time could help them learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses.” 

A fat drop hits the back of Dean’s neck and leisurely winds its way down his spine. Dean rolls his eyes and shivers as he turns the corner into teacher’s parking. 

The Impala sits in the parking lot, in all of her glory. Dean loves parking her there in the mornings, setting her in the midst of SUVs and hatchbacks like a lion among gazelles. This late in the day, most of the other cars have cleared out, which just means that he has better sight lines for his Baby. 

There’s one other car in the parking lot, a small blue Fiesta hatchback. Typical teacher car. Dean’s eyes flick over the car, just out of curiosity. When he sees that the hood is raised he becomes a little more curious. When he sees the figure beside the car he becomes a lot more curious, enough to walk over to the Fiesta, after he throws his bag in the Impala. 

“You just checking out the scenery, or what?” 

When Castiel turns to him, Dean has to bite his lip to smother a laugh. The other man looks like a drowned cat. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, flat for once underneath the force of the rain. Dean thinks that Castiel’s trenchcoat might have been beige at once time but it’s turned a dark shade of brown, saturated with water. Dean would be willing to bet that whenever Castiel moves, his waterlogged shoes squelch unpleasantly. It’s not funny, not in the slightest, but since it’s Castiel, who is normally so perfectly and unflappable, it’s kind of funny. 

“I’m not standing out here for my health,” Castiel says, his voice tight with irritation. “It’s...the damn thing won’t start.” He gestures at the tangle of belts and pistons underneath the hood like they've personally insulted him. 

Dean pauses, surprised that he heard a curse word fall from Castiel’s lips. “Do you mind?” He gestures towards the car. Castiel relinquishes his place, hands in the air as if to wash them clean. Dean hums as he leans underneath the hood. No belts slipped, nothing appears to be broken…

“There is gas in the tank, right?” he asks. He doesn’t need to see Castiel to imagine the look on the other man’s face. The stony silence speaks volumes. “All right, all right.” Castiel’s clothes aren’t the only ones soaked through--each drop of rain feels like it has a personal vendetta against him as it soaks through his coat and shirt to chill his skin.

“Do me a favor and try to start it.” Both John and Bobby taught him to listen as well as look. Sometimes eyes are the worst thing in this business: they lie all the time. 

“It won’t start.”

Dean grits his teeth at Castiel’s peevish tone. “I’m not expecting it to. But if I can hear what it’s doing I might be able to tell you what’s wrong.” Through the rain, Dean catches a small twitch at the corner of Castiel’s right eye, like it’s taking everything that he has to not roll his eyes. 

Still, Castiel slides into the driver’s seat, though he turns the keys with a little more force than is necessary. Dean watches and listens. The sound is key. The engine tries. It sputters, an old man coughing in the morning, and catches for a moment before dying out with a low whine. “One more time,” Dean calls, pitching his voice so that he can be heard above the rain. He’s almost sure that he knows what’s wrong but it won’t hurt to double check. 

There’s a pause, during which Dean would be willing to put money down on the fact that Castiel rolls his eyes. The same sound occurs--the cough, the rumble, and then the whimper. This time Dean is sure. 

He shuts the hood and wipes his hands on his pants. They need to be washed anyway, there’s no harm in getting a little dirt on them. “So I’ve got good news and bad news.” 

Castiel gets out of the car, his face already set in a pissy expression. “Dean, I’m too miserable to play coy. What’s wrong?”

“Your spark plugs are bad.” Castiel looks more clueless than someone with his IQ has a right to. “They start the car? They literally create the spark to light up the engine? You might have noticed that you've been idling rough, your acceleration hasn't been easy?” Castiel’s dark look answers that question. Though it’s hard, Dean avoids giving him the lecture about taking your car in for proper tune-ups.

“I’m guessing that this is not a problem which can be solved at six o’clock in the evening in a parking lot.” The dryness of Castiel’s voice could give the Sahara Desert a run for its money. 

Dean nods. Sticking his hands in his pockets won’t keep them warm or dry by any means, but it stops his useless fidgeting. He knows what he wants to offer, but he doesn’t know whether Castiel will accept or not. For some reason, the thought of Castiel rebuffing him hurts a little more than it should. 

The hell with it. Dean’s never won anything by waiting. 

“Look, do you trust me?” 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s late and Castiel’s tired. Maybe it’s the fact that his fringe is practically dripping into his eyes and his clothes look like he’s just taken a dip in the swimming pool. Or maybe he really does trust him. Whatever the reason, Castiel only thinks for a second before jerking his head in a swift nod. 

Dean hides his smile by reaching for his phone, thankfully water-resistant. “I need to make a call.”

Bobby’s voice is gruff when he answers. Of course, it's always gruff but now there’s an edge to it, which says that he’s pissed because he was probably just sitting down to dinner when Dean had the temerity to call him. 

“Hi Bobby,” Dean says, trying to cut off the rant before it starts. “Look, I know that you’re going to be pissed but I need a favor.” A long, pointed silence at the other end of the phone. “Look, I’m at the school and I’m going to need a tow.” 

Bobby scoffs at that. “As much as you pamper that car, I can't believe that something slipped past you.” 

Dean rotates slowly, casting his eyes down to the ground to avoid Castiel’s judgmental look. “It’s not for me, all right!” 

This time the silence manages to be incredulous, which is not wholly unreasonable on Bobby's part. Dean would like to consider himself a nice guy but the number of people that he would bother Bobby for at after six in the evening is small. And most of them already live inside Bobby’s house. 

Bobby finally sighs, resigned even though the tinny quality of the phone. “Boy, if you’re pulling this just to impress--”

“No!” Dean’s voice is sharp and startled. He casts a look at Castiel, who looks more and more pissed by the second. “Jesus, Bobby.” He rolls his eyes and rakes his fingers through his sopping wet hair. He glances at Castiel, who’s glaring like he wants to cut a hole through Dean’s soul. He turns away from that stare and lowers his voice. “It’s Milton’s car. The sparkplugs are bad and he could use a tow.” 

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.” Dean’s glad that Bobby doesn’t press him anymore because he doesn’t have an answer. If it were anyone else then he would have written down the number for a tow company, maybe stayed to keep them company. He certainly wouldn’t call Bobby. 

Dean hangs up the phone and shoves it back in his wet pocket. “Bobby should be here in twenty minutes.” 

Castiel tilts his head. “Robert Singer?” Dean must look confused because a brief smile crosses Castiel’s face. “He retired after my first year at Lawrence. We didn’t have occasion to speak to each other much but he made quite the impression.”

“He tends to do that.” Dean glances back at the Impala. “Look, I’m going to get out of the rain. You’re more than welcome.” He gestures at the Impala. 

Castiel’s eyes flick towards the Impala before he looks back at his car. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just…” He frowns slightly as he looks back towards the Impala, the indecision writ plain on his face. 

“I’ve got a towel. And heat.” And with that, Castiel starts towards the Impala. Dean smiles in triumph, though he’s not sure why he’s celebrating. He should be leaving, secure in the knowledge of his good deed. Better yet, he should have pushed the number to a tow company into Castiel’s hand and driven away ten minutes ago. Instead of those options however, he’s opening the door and leaning across the front seat to unlock the passenger door, while reaching into the backseat for his car towel. 

Castiel looks suspiciously at the bench seat like he’s searching for landmines. When he comes up empty he slides into the car, tucking his coat neatly in before he closes the door. Dean stops his inspection of the other man long enough to roughly towel off his hair and face. His clothes, drenched and cold, are hopeless. Dean sniffs at the towel as it passes over his face and winces. It might have spent too much of its life neglected in his backseat but any port in a storm, right? 

Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t comment on the towel’s olfactory qualities when Dean hands it to him. Instead, he murmurs a quiet thanks and briskly wipes his face before toweling his hair. His merciless movements leave his hair wilder than usual. The sight brings a smile to Dean’s face. 

Castiel is obviously more hopeful than Dean as he tries to pat his coat dry. It’s ineffective but there’s something endearing about watching him try. Dean twists the key to accessory and sighs in relief as the Impala’s heaters crank to life. Castiel pauses in his quest to dry his coat and stares at the dash. 

“It’s not supposed to make that noise, is it?”

Dean chuckles as he pats the dash. “No big deal. My brother and I got bored one afternoon when we were waiting for Dad to finish up a job. Shoved a few Legos into the heater, just because we could, and we never did figure out how to get them out.”

Castiel makes a small noise of acknowledgement before returning to his Sisyphean task. Neither of them speaks as their breaths begin to fog up the windshield, and the silence becomes a palpable presence in the car alongside them. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean chances a glance at Castiel. He’s just sitting there, staring out the window at the empty parking lot. He’s at least stopped trying to dry his coat. Instead, he twists the fabric of the towel in his hands, an empty gesture meant to occupy the hands while the mind is busy elsewhere. 

Dean’s never done well with silence. Silence meant that he was alone, without his Dad or Sam to talk to, silence meant that Dad was too pissed to even talk to him. Even today, when he’s at home alone, he either has the TV or music blaring. The quiet between him and Castiel is a living, breathing thing and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. 

He punches the tape player and the soothing tones of _Tangerine_ wind through the car. His fingers know the beat and he absently drums it against the steering wheel, humming underneath his breath. This time when he chances a look at Castiel, he’s turned away from the parking lot and has instead fixed his stare on the tape deck. 

Dean chuckles. “Not a Zeppelin fan?” 

Castiel’s eyes are wide, almost guilty, when he looks at Dean. “I’ve never listened to...” He shrugs. “It’s not my normal taste, but it’s not unpleasant.” 

“Not unpleasant. From you, that’s a ringing endorsement.” 

Castiel’s lips lift in agreement. The last chord fades away into nothing, to be replaced with soft acoustic guitar. Normally Dean skips through this song; it’s too mellow for his particular style, but today it somehow seems right, the fall of rain mixing with the melody. Dean closes his eyes and smiles, still keeping the beat with a single finger tapping on his leg. 

“I always wondered about this car.” 

Castiel’s voice is low enough that if Dean wanted to, he could pretend that he’d never heard it. But there’s something in the tone, something curious and precarious, like Castiel is peeling back a layer of armor and allowing Dean to see the soft flesh underneath. 

“What about it? It’s a ‘67 Impala.” Almost unconsciously, Dean’s fingers seek out the stitching of the steering wheel, running his nails over the bumps. 

“It just...it fits you.” Castiel’s hand falls from his lap to his side, and his fingers stroke over the leather seat. His eyes are soft as he looks over the dash and heat blooms in Dean which has nothing to do with the heat blasting out of the vents. “Something this old, this well taken care of...there has to be a story.” 

Dean’s throat tightens and his fist clenches around the wheel. There are so many stories burned into the leather and metal of Baby. His and Sam’s initials, etched into the door, the toy soldiers shoved into the pocket, his father sitting behind the wheel, humming along with _Black Dog_ as he glanced into the backseat and smiled at Dean. Him and Sam, stretched out in the backseat while Dad slept in the front. John’s voice, slurred and hopeless, while Dean clutched Bobby’s phone to his ear. 

“Yeah,” Dean chokes out through gritted teeth. There are thousands of stories held within this small space, all of them threatening to claw their way out of him. He has to remind himself that Castiel has earned the right to absolutely none of them. Just because he’s not quite as terrible as Dean originally thought doesn’t mean that he’s earned the right to dig into Dean’s life. 

Castiel blinks and settles back into the seat. “Right.” After a moment he adds, “Sorry.” 

The rain beats a steady rhythm on the roof. By now, the windshield has completely fogged over. Dean can only see the faintest of images. It’s almost like his world has been reduced to the confines of the Impala. The echo of rain against her body, the rich scent of leather, the creak of the seats as they shift, the plaintive chords winding their way around and through him. 

“We grew up in this car, my brother and me,” Dean says. It’s almost involuntary, the words drawn out of him like fish on a line, but there’s something clean about it all. Castiel looks at him, lower lip falling open in faint surprise, but he says nothing, perhaps acknowledging the fragility of the moment. “My dad, he uh, he traveled a lot. And there wasn’t anyone to watch us, so we came with him. And…” Dean runs his hands over the steering wheel. His fingers fit into the worn-out grooves and it’s settling, the thought that there’s always one place in the world where he belongs. “This car, it ended up being--”

The blare of a car horn startles Dean so badly that he jumps and bashes his knee into the dash. The small, contained world, where it’s just him and Castiel, and they’re both safe, rips away, leaving Dean wild-eyed with his heart racing. He can’t help but mourn for that world as headlights scrape through the windshield. It had felt like a protected space of peace, something precious with all the potential in the world. 

“Mr. Singer appears to have arrived,” Castiel says, unnecessarily. 

Maybe he’s reading into things but Dean thinks that he might hear regret in Castiel’s voice. He unfolds himself from the car before he can think too much on that.

After the warmth of the car, the cold of the rain is doubly brutal. Dean bites back his unhappy moan as he clutches his damp jacket close around him. It provides no comfort, not that he was expecting it to. 

Bobby jumps down from his truck, his movements impatient as he circles around Castiel’s car. He’s dressed in his usual: jeans, flannel, and ratty trucker’s hat, but something about him suggests a man who was torn from the comforts of home. Castiel, obviously not sensing the surliness clinging to Bobby like a miasma, moves closer, his hand already extended. “Mr. Singer? I don’t know if you remember me, but you were here my first year? I’d like to thank you for coming out this late at night. I don’t know how much you charge but you can bill it to me.” 

Bobby’s mouth disappears into his beard as he regards Castiel. After a moment’s contemplation, he takes Castiel’s hand and shakes it, once. “I remember you. Milton. Everyone made quite the stir about you.” 

Bobby thankfully doesn’t mention the other reason he knows Castiel’s name: Dean’s snide bitching and passive-aggressive comments about Milton’s superiority in the school. Dean is suddenly, viciously, grateful of Bobby’s tact. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bobby waves off another attempt by Castiel to thank him and offer him payment. “I’ve owed Dean a favor here for a while; you can pay me by getting him to stop bitching about it.”

Dean blinks in surprise. This is the first he’s heard about a favor. As he walks by him to attach the chains to the undercarriage of Castiel’s car, Bobby catches his eye and...Is that a wink? Dean takes a step back, unsure in this new world where everything seems just a little left of center. 

Bobby attaches the chains, checks to make sure that they’re secure, before walking back to his truck and starting the crank. The whole process is smooth and takes no more than ten minutes total. Once the car is on the back of the truck Bobby wedges the blocks underneath the rear tires and steps back. He surveys his job and the surliness falls away, in light of a job well done. 

“If it’s alright with you, I’m going to take this back home. Should have it done by the time school finishes tomorrow.” Bobby shoves a business card into Castiel’s hand. “Call that number.” 

Castiel blinks owlishly at the card and then at Bobby. “I really don’t know how to thank you for this. It’s...thank you.” He shakes Bobby’s hand once more, and a pleased warmth curls in Dean’s chest. 

“Oh, you’re going to be paying for that,” Bobby promises, something cheery in his step as he swings himself back into the truck. Caught in the moment, Dean can only muzzily wonder why Bobby’s demeanor turned a 180. “Call tomorrow; can’t promise anything but I should be done around 3:30.” He waves before starting the truck and rumbling away. 

Castiel shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly reticent. His jaw is tense as he looks around the parking lot, shoulders hunched in protectively. Dean wonders why, until he asks, softer than usual, “I know that it’s a little far out of your way, but it appears that I don’t have a way to get home. Do you mind…?” 

It clicks, Bobby’s weird happiness, as well as his sudden departure, when normally he would offer the client a ride to either their home or the garage. Dean spares a moment to curse him, before he turns back to Castiel. “It’s no problem,” he shrugs. 

They get back into the car and the engine purrs to life. The car fills with music once more, but the previous peace eludes them. Dean grasps for it, that soft, hazy feel, where words seemed to flow from him with the ease of water falling, but it’s gone. Instead, the mood is jagged, off-kilter, like coming out of the warmth back into the cold. 

Throughout the drive, Castiel doesn’t speak, other than to give Dean directions. Dean vaguely recognizes where he’s headed. The neighborhood is outside of Lawrence proper, suburban. It’s similar to where Sam lives, albeit on the opposite end of town. Castiel guides him down several streets until he tells Dean to pull into the driveway of a trim, brick A-frame. 

Dean tries for subtle, but fails miserably, as he checks out the exterior of the house. The exterior is well-maintained, neatly clipped green grass edging up on a sidewalk. Several tasteful bushes ring the house, and non-descript flowers are scattered throughout. Dark shutters frame the windows of the house. Everything appears neat, tidy, and utterly cookie-cutter. Dean is a little disappointed. He halfway expected Castiel to live in something resembling Dracula’s mansion, or a spaceship. Something different than suburban hell. 

Castiel sits in the car just a second longer than Dean would expect, enough that Dean spares at look over at him. He notices the fidget in Castiel’s fingers, the way that he strokes the strap of his bag, the slight jiggle of his leg. The moment stretches on, into the point of awkwardness, and Dean grows impatient because he’d like to go home at some point tonight.

Castiel cough, sniffs, and bites his lip. His facial muscles perform a series of gymnastics before he meets Dean’s eyes. “Would you...would you like to come in?” 

Dean thanks his years in the education system for his ability to keep a poker face. Of everything he could have anticipated, this scenario didn’t even rank in his top twenty. Still, the offer has been made, and all that remains is for Dean to stretch out his hand and take it. 

He takes too long to answer, and Castiel smiles, huge and false. He grabs his bag and fumbles for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, I suppose that I’ll see you--”

“Hey, no.” Dean reaches out on instinct, grabs the sleeve of Castiel’s coat. Castiel glances down at Dean’s presumptuous grip, then up at Dean. His eyes are wide and surprised, but Dean doesn’t dare let go of his coat. “I don’t have any plans for tonight.” Castiel’s eyes soften. This time when he smiles, it’s tiny and a thousand times more genuine. 

“All right. All right.” 

Wordlessly, they get out of the car. Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, falling into step behind Castiel as he walks towards the side door. He’s jittery and strangely nervous as Castiel fumbles in his pocket for his keys. He can’t shake the feeling of the end of a first-date, which is ridiculous for several, valid reasons. Still, when Castiel spares him half a glance over his shoulder as his key slides home, the feeling intensifies. 

Castiel flicks the lights on as Dean steps into the house. Once more, Dean tries to drink in every small detail without revealing his inherent nosiness. The interior of the house perfectly mirrors the tidiness of the exterior. The kitchen looks like it could have come out of a shoot from _Better Homes and Gardens_ , complete with spectacular organization and shiny gadgets. There’s even a breakfast nook, complete with a tall table that has a centerpiece. Dean wasn’t aware that actual people used centerpieces outside of yuppie holidays. 

Dean glances past the kitchen to the open-plan living space. It reminds him of nothing more than a staged home, something that an ambitious realtor would set up for potential clients. Everything is too clean and perfect. Dean thinks about his own home. His couch is littered with books, blankets, and some spare lesson plans. Dean has left his mark on every inch of his house; every room has his imprint pressed carefully into it. But Castiel’s house, with its pristine arrangements, and flawless furniture presentation...Castiel could disappear from the earth and his house would already be ready for the auction block. It strikes Dean as suddenly, horrifically, sad. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Castiel says, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I think that there’s a beer in the fridge.” Without warning, he disappears down the hallway, leaving Dean alone in the living room. 

The first-date feel intensifies, crawling underneath Dean’s skin. He doesn’t know what to do with it. If he were with anyone else, he’d make a joke, address the awkwardness head-on, or spread himself out on their couch as an invitation. But Castiel is an unknown element, a gem which continually shows him new facets after he thought he’d catalogued everything. 

The thought hits Dean, so suddenly that it must have marinating in his head all evening: _He doesn’t want to wreck whatever this thing is_. 

Just as Dean is getting ready to start investigating Castiel’s living room, the man himself pokes his head back into the room, interrupting him. In his hands, he holds a thick sweatshirt. “I didn’t know...” Nervousness sits ill on Castiel, twisting his features into something foreign. “Do you want me to throw your shirt and jacket into the dryer?” 

Dean swallows, dry throat clicking. He won’t deny that his clothes long since passed the point of uncomfortable, the clammy fabric clinging to his skin in a way that promises future illness. Still, the offer seems like too much, on the heels of an evening that’s already been too much. 

A cold drop of water slinking down his back to the waistband of his pants decides him. “God yes, that’d be awesome,” Dean says, as he peels out of his jacket. The denim doesn’t want to cooperate, stubbornly clinging to his arms, and Dean’s face flushes as he struggles his way out. His button down comes off easier, buttons sliding open underneath his shaking fingers. He can’t meet Castiel’s eyes, and he focuses on the buttons as if they’re the most interesting puzzle he’ll ever solve. 

Dean’s not ashamed of his body by any means. He knows, objectively, that he’s good-looking, and even if he didn’t, he’s had enough come-ons at bars that the fact would have sunk in sooner or later. But the thought of baring his body to Castiel, Castiel whose sneer could topple cities, Castiel whose eyes are so icy they could give the Arctic a run for its money--Dean hopes that Castiel doesn’t catch the tremble of his fingers as he slides the shirt off his cool shoulders. 

He needn’t have worried. When Dean looks up at Castiel, an involuntary smile hits him, because Castiel, infuriating, weird, inscrutable man, isn’t even looking at him. Castiel thrusts the sweatshirt towards him with one hand, the rest of his body angled away from him. Castiel’s eyes are firmly planted on the floor and if Dean squints he thinks that he can see a faint blush dusting his cheeks. 

Just because he can, Dean steps closer to Castiel, close enough that he can see the twitch of his jaw. A wild abandon floods through his blood, spurred on by the close darkness of the house, the chill air prickling along his skin, the thrill of crawling underneath Castiel’s mask and making a home for himself. He reaches out. Dean’s fingers slide over the sweatshirt, until he finds skin, warm and smooth. Castiel’s face never moves, but he can’t hide the twitch of his fingers underneath Dean’s. 

“Thanks Cas,” Dean murmurs, and though he didn’t intend for his voice to drop several octaves, he’d be lying if he didn’t love the way that Castiel’s fingers move in reaction. It’s intoxicating, to be able to finally, after all these years, see the seams holding him together. 

Castiel’s eyelashes flutter on his cheek when he blinks. “I’m going to change and put these in the dryer. Please. Help yourself.” He snatches Dean’s shirt and jacket out of his arms and disappears. 

Once Castiel’s not in front of him anymore, the recklessness vanishes from Dean’s veins, almost like it was never there to begin with. Its absence leaves Dean exhausted and vaguely nauseous, like the worst kind of crash. Why did he think it was a good idea to do...any of what he just did? He and Castiel had just been starting to have a tentative...maybe not friendship, but not pure hatred, and then he had to go and fuck it up by trying to dick around with him. 

He turns the sweatshirt over in his hands. It’s simple and grey, with a purple ‘Northwestern University’ emblazoned across the front.The fabric is the kind of soft that comes from repeated wearing and washings, the inner lining worn smooth from years of use. After his little stunt, Dean doesn’t even want to put it on but the alternative is to be standing shirtless in Castiel’s living room, so he shrugs into the shirt. It’s just as comfortable as he’d imagined and as he slides his head through the top, he inhales deeply. He shouldn’t like the scent of someone else’s fabric softener that much, especially not when it’s like Castiel manufactures his own. Still, it’s almost intoxicating, and if there were anyone to see him sniffing at the sleeve of Castiel’s sweatshirt then Dean would have to drown himself from the embarrassment. 

After his little moment with the sweatshirt, Dean knows that he’s in too deep. Maybe he’s sick from the rain and he’s hallucinating. That would certainly explain a lot. Dean runs his hands through his mostly dry hair. Whatever this _thing_ is, he needs to get a grip on himself. Unfortunately, that’s difficult to do when he’s in a room surrounded by the man’s possessions. 

He wanders over to the shelf above the fireplace in the corner of the room, drawn to the artfully arranged photographs. For a second Dean wonders if, like the rest of the house, they’re just stock photos, meant to create a particular type of image, but no, they’re of real people. Dean even recognizes most of them. Mayor Michael is in one, sitting in a large chair and surrounded by what must be his whole extended family. Far in the back of the crowd, Dean can see Castiel, staring dead at the camera, face set in its normal _I wish I was anywhere but here_ expression. There are a few photos of a woman with vibrant red hair and large, sad eyes, whose smile looks like it’s mourning something. Dean traces over her face before moving his attention elsewhere.

Dean looks at the other pictures. He pulls down one particular picture, scowling when he gets a closer look at its occupants. It’s Castiel and Meg Masters and they’re on some beach with impossibly white sand and water so blue that Dean can’t believe that it hasn’t been Photoshopped. It’s still nothing compared to the blue of Castiel’s eyes as he smiles into the camera, teeth showing in a wide smile. Meg even has a smile on her face instead of her normal smirk. She’s standing behind Castiel, her head leaned into his, and her arms thrown around his neck. Dean searches the image for something hidden, but. They just look happy. 

Another picture shows Castiel and Balthazar. They’re standing someplace unmistakably European, maybe Madrid, maybe Paris, maybe Berlin. Wherever it is, they look like they fit right in, both of them dressed in tight fitting pants, Balthazar with his customary V-neck, and Castiel in a dark button-down. A pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head catches the sunlight and throws it back towards the camera. Their arms are slung around each other, hips pressed too close together to be purely casual. They look like there’s no other place they’d rather be, no other _person_ they’d rather be with. 

The gem turns, another facet comes to light. This time, it’s not a piece that Dean thinks that he wanted. His eyes flick to Castiel’s fridge. He needs a beer. 

He opens Castiel’s refrigerator, looks inside, and closes the door. Opens the door again. 

He forgets all about the fact that he’s an asshole, forgets about the pictures on Castiel’s mantle, forgets that in five minutes Dean demolished a relationship that took him over a month to build. He can’t get over the contents, or lack thereof, in Castiel’s refrigerator. Five beers, ketchup, a half-empty quart of skim milk, a jar of bread and butter pickles, and grape jelly is all that stands between Castiel and starvation. Dean always assumed that Castiel’s trim figure was due to some kind of exercise regime, but maybe the truth is simpler. Maybe he just doesn’t eat. 

Dean’s ears, relentlessly trained by his father, pick up the sound of feet treading on the carpet. “Cas,” he calls, forgetting everything else except his horror over the lack of food, “are you aware that you don’t have any food in your house?”

Silence greets his question and that’s when the rest of reality crashes into him. The borrowed sweatshirt shifts against his skin as Dean faces Castiel. 

If he’d stopped to think about it, then Dean would have just automatically assumed that Castiel lived in his waistcoats, suits, and ties. He’d never seen the man without at least a button-down Oxford on. But the Castiel across from him is a new beast, one dressed in a sweater and a pair of faded jeans. His feet are bare. Dean’s never thought himself a connoisseur of feet, but Castiel...Castiel’s got some nice feet. 

Dean’s mouth goes dry as Castiel continues to stare at him. He has no idea what Castiel finds on his face but he can’t find anything on Castiel’s. 

“Look, Cas,” too late he remembers himself, “Castiel, I’m sorry about earlier, I guess I was just screwing around--”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Castiel interrupts. His low voice is as serious as Dean’s ever heard it. “You say, repeatedly, that you don’t like me, but then you go out of your way to help me, and then…” Castiel’s jaw clenches, his eyes are gimlet. “I don’t play games Dean.” 

“I’m not--I didn’t mean to,” is all that Dean can think to say. 

Castiel never blinks and he remains at the other end of the room. “Maybe not.” His lower lip disappears for a second between even white teeth before it reappears. Dean’s eyes follow the journey before he looks back up to Castiel’s steel eyes. “You should know Dean.” His eyes are hypnotic and even if Dean wanted to, he couldn’t look away. “I don’t do relationships.” Something strange swoops in Dean’s stomach, a weird little stone of disappointment that Dean didn’t know he could carry until he found it in his pocket. “And I don’t screw around with people that I work with.” Castiel’s eyes hold no challenge, no coy invitation for Dean to try and change his mind. It’s just the truth. 

_Then what about those pictures? You can’t tell me that you weren’t screwing Meg and Balthazar both_. Something wild and vicious wants to spit those words right in Castiel’s face, but Dean just nods. Because _fuck, a relationship_ , that’s not anything close to what he wanted from Castiel, not a _relationship_ , not when he only just got used to the idea that maybe he doesn’t hate Castiel, maybe he actually kind of likes him. _I don’t know what you want from me_ , Castiel had said, and then _I don’t do relationships_ and fuck, Dean hadn’t known that was an option until all of a sudden, it wasn’t. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean says, harsher than he intends. Castiel’s mouth hardens and Dean immediately tries to backpedal. “I didn’t...shit.” 

He’s bought himself about ten seconds and he uses them to think of how he can save this situation. This night’s turned unpredictable, not that it’s been normal from the start but he’s walking on virgin ground here. A relationship? He doesn’t want a relationship with Castiel, not really. What he wants...He wants to be like they were this evening, tucked away together in the Impala, safe from the rest of the world, in a little bubble all their own. He wants to be able to drop little nuggets of truth and have someone accept them for what they are, instead of trying to use those nuggets to fix the broken parts of him. What he wants--

“I just want this, between us, to be all right,” he says, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t...I don’t want to go back to before.” He hopes to god that Castiel knows what he means, because he sure as hell can’t put it into words. All he knows is that the thought of going back to a month ago, when they were like two cats circling each other, spitting and hissing at the slightest provocation...the thought makes his stomach want to crawl out of his throat. 

“Dean,” Cas says, blinking slowly. While his face doesn’t show much emotion, Dean’s starting to suspect that it’s not because Cas doesn’t feel them. He thinks that maybe it’s the opposite: maybe he feels too much, so much that his face can’t possibly hope to express them all. “I…” Castiel trails off, looking all the world like he wants someone to rescue him. 

More than anything, Dean wants to be that guy, to be able to say the right thing to make everyone’s problems disappear. “You don’t have any food in your fridge,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, but maybe that’s the right thing to say after all. Castiel’s face loses its harsh edges and becomes soft with confusion. Dean presses the advantage. “You’ve got condiments, and skim milk, and fuck that’s just depressing, Cas.” 

Cas blinks, before he walks closer, peering over the edge of the door into his fridge. “There’s jelly. I can make sandwiches for lunch.” Dean meets his eyes, a disbelieving smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“Cas, you might have more degrees than me, but you are godawful stupid sometimes.” Dean pulls out his phone and thumbs open his pizza app. “What’s your address? I’m getting you some goddamn food.” 

Castiel puts up a token protest, but Dean smugly notices that he also peers over his shoulder to offer his opinion on various foods. Castiel’s opinion doesn’t come in verbal form, nothing as mundane as that, but Dean swiftly learns to interpret the different hums of approval and disapproval as he clicks through the menu. He orders more food than two men will ever be able to eat in one sitting, and something pleased flows through him when he realizes Castiel will have plenty of food to take for lunch tomorrow. 

While they’re waiting for the pizza, he and Cas talk about stupid crap, like potential topics for the senior projects, lineups for the upcoming match next week. Harmless, non-threatening topics. It’s easy, easier than it has a right to be. I don’t want a relationship, Castiel had said, but this, this isn’t anywhere near a relationship. This is just easy. 

Afterwards, when the half-empty pizza box is packed away into the fridge and Dean’s stomach is full, he stretches out on Cas’ couch, shoes toed off and his hands partially buried within the sleeves of Cas’ sweatshirt. He finds the remote for Cas’ TV, an obscenely large flat-screen mounted on the wall. 

“The hell can you afford something like this?” Dean asks, forgetting for a moment that Castiel’s family earns more money in a week than Dean’s father ever earned in his entire life. 

Castiel shrugs, looking uncomfortable for the first time in a long while. “It was a gift,” he finally mutters. “My cousin, Gabriel, received it as thanks for an ad deal, and he didn’t need it, so he gave it to me. I think he meant for me to become more pop-culture savvy.” 

“Mission failed,” Dean snorts, and instead of bristling or snapping, Cas just smiles ruefully, sinking back into an easy-chair. Dean hides the brightest part of his grin behind Cas’ sweatshirt and flips through the channels before he finds something that he likes. It’s a cop procedural, something that Dean’s seen a thousand times before, despite the fact that he’s never seen this episode. Like before, in the Impala, everything feels soft, like someone’s taken all of their hard edges and gently sanded them so that they can’t hurt each other. 

The dryer buzzes, jerking Cas upright. “Your clothes,” he says, disappearing before Dean can react. He tries not to blink, wanting to hold this moment in close to him. He doesn’t know if he can ever come back to here again, where everything seems indestructible and vulnerable, all at once. 

Cas returns, Dean’s folded clothes in hand. Dean takes them, relishing the warmth still clinging to the fabric. He holds back from sniffing them, but he can somehow tell that they smell the same as the sweatshirt that he’s wearing. Speaking of. “Give me a second to change.” Dean starts towards the bathroom but Castiel’s shrug stops him. 

“Just...give it back whenever. It’s fine.” 

Dean shrugs and turns to hide his smile. “I’ll have it back to you by the end of the week. How fond are you of it? I do accept ransoms.” 

Cas rolls his eyes and ushers him towards the door. 

Dean turns around, so abruptly that Cas almost runs into his chest. "Hey, you don't have a car," he says, and such is his goodwill towards the rest of the world, that the roll of Cas' eyes comes off as fond. "No, I mean, are you going to need a ride tomorrow?" 

Castiel blinks, his mouth turning down in a faint frown. "I was planning...Meg lives nearby, I was planning on asking her to give me a ride into work tomorrow." 

Dean immediately feels stupid, and then irritated for feeling stupid. "Yeah, no of course, that makes sense. Right." 

He's turned around, half out the door, when Cas' voice stops him. "Dean." Once again, the simple sound of his name has the power to stop everything in Dean's world. He stops, but he can't turn around to face Cas, not right now, when he doesn't know what is plastered all over his face. "Thanks for everything. For tonight." 

Dean has to turn around. Castiel does a good job at mimicking unaffected: his arms are folded across his chest and his posture is easy and set. There's something, however, in his eyes that tells Dean that maybe, Cas is just as scared of screwing this up as he is. So he shrugs, self-deprecating, and grins. "It's no problem. Gives you something else other than freaking pickles to eat for lunch." Cas smiles and scuffs the floor with his foot. 

"I'll see you later this week." And that's not entirely a promise that this will happen again, but it's not a promise that it won't either. Dean can live with that. Cas opens the door for Dean, shivers as the night invades the coziness of the house. "Good night Dean." 

“Night Cas,” Dean calls, walking back out into the night. Though there’s a chill in the air, the relentlessly cold rain has long since passed, leaving the world smelling clean and fresh in its wake. He slides into the front seat of the Impala, watching Castiel turn back inside and the outside light flick off. He watches the house for a moment, smiling, before he cranks the key and starts the drive home. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Dean’s whole world has become nothing more than slick, wet, heat._

_God, he hasn’t felt something this good in...in...it’s not fucking important, because it feels like his goddamn soul is being sucked out through his cock and it’s fucking awesome, is what it is. Dean pants, fists twisting the sheets and his back arches as he’s swallowed down again, back of his cock hitting the soft resistance of a throat._

_“Fuck,” Dean groans, hips trying to push up. A helpless moan escapes his lips as strong hands cup his hips, push them down and pin them. He tries, he really does try, to push up into that welcoming heat, but those hands don’t allow any movement. He’s forced to just lay there and take it, deep sucks, and teasing licks. He actually fucking whimpers as cool air hits his cock, the sensation tantalizing and teasing._

_“C’mon, c’mon, please, please--” Dean’s hand gropes down, fingers winding through thick, sweat-damp hair. He cups the curve of a skull in his hand, not pushing or pulling, just present, occasionally twisting his fingers in dark hair, just to feel the moan shudder through the throat wrapped around his cock._

_He whines as cool air surrounds his cock, looking down the length of his body to meet coolly amused blue eyes. “You need to learn a little more patience,” Cas says, his already low voice hoarse and totally fucking wrecked. Dean’s cock twitches because he did that, he made Cas sound like that, smug and yet so desperate._

_Dean’s hands push on the back of Cas’s head as he shifts his hips, trying to get Cas’s attention back to where he wants it. Cas obliges him, but he’s an asshole about it, teasing little licks to the head, too much and not enough. Dean pulls Cas’ hair, blood lighting up as Cas moans. He retaliates by deliberately licking at the slit of Dean’s cock, tracing the thick vein all the way down to the base._

_“Fuck, Cas, Cas, oh God, need this, need you, need you so bad--” Cas returns to his job, sucking him down all the way to the root like it’s his fucking job, spit dribbling out of the corner of his lips as he bobs up and down, damp eyelashes fanned out on his cheek and no one’s ever gone down on him before like this, like there was nothing else they’d rather be doing, like all they’d ever wanted from life was Dean’s cock in their mouth--_

_“God, Cas, I”m gonna, Cas, Cas please--” Cas’s eyes finally flick up to him, glassy and electric and Dean’s whole body stiffens--_

With a gasp, Dean bolts upright. His heart pounds uncomfortably in his chest, hands twisting in the sweat-damp sheets underneath him. He’s aware of his skin in a way that he normally isn’t, all of it prickling and humming with awareness and thwarted desire. Desire from…

Dean remembers his dream, in excruciating detail. His cock twitches against his thigh, more than half hard and happily on its way to full mast. “Stop that,” he hisses, not that his dick takes any notice. It’s still blissfully ensconced in remembering the feel of dream-Cas’s mouth, the wicked little grin, the way that his eyes gleamed as he looked up at Dean, his dark head bobbing up and down…

“Goddamnit,” Dean hisses, wrapping his hand around his cock. He thinks of anything, of tits, legs, burying himself in slick, wet, heat--Cas’s eyes, fixing on his, his cock still in Cas’s mouth, the way that Cas closed his eyes before diving back down, Cas’s hands holding him down--

With a low groan, Dean comes, remembering just how Castiel smiled at him--not in the dream, but tonight, with pizza grease smeared over his mouth, not half an hour after Dean had assured him that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. 

He doesn’t want a relationship. Relationships are messy, time-consuming, and ultimately end in tragedy and hurt feelings. What he wants are more nights like tonight, easy and comfortable. Effortless. 

But that dream…

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, flopping back on his bed. 

He is so screwed. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. come crashing through your door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two nights to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies lovelies! This chapter literally fought me tooth and nail and ended up being about 18 pages of transition. Oh well, no one's perfect.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The first Scholastic Bowl competition of the season comes along and Dean is surprised to find himself nervous. He’ll deny it to his dying day, but it gets so bad that Charlie calls him out in the middle of lunch. 

“Big night tonight,” she says, talking around her giant mouthful of sandwich. 

They’re in the teacher’s lounge, a truly depressing room which smells of stale coffee, printer toner, and countless microwaved meals. Every piece of furniture is a hold-over from the 1970’s: the table, the office chairs, and the truly distressing orange and brown couch, complete with odd stains, sitting in the corner. Dean wouldn’t sit on it for a whole month’s salary. Teachers flow in and out through the room all during lunch but thankfully, Charlie’s chosen to spring this conversation bomb on him towards the end half of lunch, when the traffic slows down. 

When he doesn’t immediately answer, Charlie waggles her eyebrows in an absurd dance. Dean, of course, knows exactly what she’s talking about, but tries to play it off anyway. “Don’t know what you mean. Dr. Sexy doesn’t air on Mondays.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother to dignify his remark with a response. “Alfie is part of my tech squad. He told me that your first competition is tonight.” 

Dean shrugs, wiping a spare bit of sauce from his chin. “Yeah, so instead of getting home at six tonight, I’ll get home at nine. Awesome.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Dude, you can cut the tough guy act with me, all right? You’re not fooling anyone.” 

Dean cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Wasn’t aware that I was trying to.” Charlie over exaggerates the roll of her eyes, to the point where it might be classified as exercise. 

Dean hunches over his food, feeling oddly chastised. It’s not often that Charlie feels the need to call him on his crap; most of the time she’ll just wait for him to figure his own shit out, but when she makes the effort it never ceases make him feel about two inches tall. “I might be a little more invested in the outcome tonight than I originally anticipated,” he finally allows. 

Charlie rolls her eyes again, with infinitely more compassion. “You play tough Winchester, but you’re a big softy. Come on.”

Dean sighs and drops his head down to the table, ignoring for a moment the years of accumulated filth. “Fine, damn it. I’m worried, because I don’t know how this whole thing is going to play out, and the kids are so excited about it and I don’t want to see them disappointed, and Cas has been worried about playing De Soto High--”

“Cas?”

Charlie’s voice acts like a bucket of ice-water dumped over him. Despite the fact that it makes him look guiltier, he sits bolt upright and smiles weakly. “Um, Milton?” It doesn’t fool her, not that he was expecting it to. 

Charlie, however, is a being made of infinite empathy and kindness. She lets it lie, just smiling secretively between sips from her soda. Dean waits, for the rest of lunch, for her to strike, but she never does. If Charlie were the type for cheap shots, then Dean would worry for his future, but if Charlie were the type for cheap shots then Dean wouldn’t be friends with her.

The bell rings, ending the lunch and sending Dean back to his room. He stands up, but before he can leave, Charlie’s arms wrap around his waist. “Good luck tonight,” she says, squeezing his middle so tightly that Dean worries for the lunch he just ingested. 

“Thanks,” Dean wheezes, patting the top of her head. Charlie releases him and grins, an actual sunbeam in the middle of the dingy lounge, and leaves the room. 

Dean walks back to his room, smiling to himself all the while. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Thirty seconds after walking into Cas’ room, Dean ponders whether or not he should fetch Charlie and see if she can bestow some of her serenity on him as well. 

He’s seen Cas pissed, he’s seen him content, he’s even seen him flustered, but he’s never seen him stressed. He’s trying to hold it together for the team’s sake but Dean can see the faint spiderwebs of concern radiating from the corners of his eyes. There’s a manic energy to the way that Cas moves around the room and even though the kids might not know everything, they’re still picking up on his mood. Claire and Kevin are snapping at each other and even Patience seems on edge. 

“Ca--Milton, can we talk?” Dean catches the slip of his tongue just in time. He returns Cas’ narrow-eyed glare with a disarming smile of his own. “It won’t take but a second.” 

Castiel gives him a Look, like he might consider ripping Dean’s throat out with his fingernails, but he acquiesces with good enough grace. That mood lasts until they reach the hallway and the door closes behind them. Then, Cas wheels around, his trademark scowl already settled firmly on his features. 

“Whatever you want to talk about, I promise we don’t have time for it. Krissy somehow managed to talk Alfie into going to the gas station to get food with her. They’re not back yet and if they don’t make it back before the bus leaves then I’ll completely have to rethink all of our lineups. Claire forgot her team shirt, so she’ll need to borrow someone else’s every time she goes in a lineup. Kevin looks tired--”

“Cas, you’ve got to take five.” Years of living with Sam have given Dean the ability to recognize a neurotic breakdown from a mile away, and Cas is showing all the signs. Irritability, obsessive behavior, pacing, the list goes on and on. “Go out and take a walk, get a drink from the machine, I don’t know. But you’re taking this way too seriously.” Dean catches the quick spark of anger in Cas’ eyes and raises his hands in what he hopes is a non-threatening gesture. “The competition is serious. But Claire not having the right shirt? Not serious.” 

Cas’ upper lip lifts in a snarl as his eyes narrow in an icy glare, but Dean holds his ground. Again, he learned with Sam, that any retreat is weakness. Once you've chosen a position, you need to stick to it with everything you have. 

Abruptly, Castiel’s shoulders slump. His head lolls back on his shoulders and Dean winces in sympathy at the sharp pop of Cas’ vertebrae. When he drags his head back up to face Dean, there’s still something defiant in the twist of his mouth, but he looks calmer than he did just thirty seconds prior. He squints at Dean, suspiciously, like Dean can’t quite be trusted. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t let anyone leave.” 

He’s gone before Dean can reply. And yeah, Cas is a rude little shit, but Dean can’t help but be pleased at the fact that Cas’ shoulders loosen with every step he takes. And sure enough, four minutes and fifty eight seconds later, Cas returns to the room, bottle of iced coffee in his hand, looking like he’s shed about twenty pounds of worry. He doesn’t thank Dean, or even verbally acknowledge him, but on his way back to his desk, Cas deliberately jostles Dean’s shoulder with his. The brief contact sends a jolt through Dean and for a few minutes he swears that his skin tingles with the memory of the touch. 

After a forty-five minute bus ride on the world’s most uncomfortable school bus, Dean picks up the stress ball once more, as he’s shoved into a coaches’ meeting with a dozen of the most pretentious human beings he’s ever had the misfortune to meet. Dean's always hated being in unfamiliar territory and here he’s been plopped behind enemy lines with no ally other than Castiel. De Soto High seems too polished, too squeaky clean. It's a far cry from Lawrence High’s dusty and tired hallways. The rest of the coaches are pristine and suave, with creases in their blazers sharp enough to cut flesh. Dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, Dean feels like the redneck cousin who accidentally wandered into the boardroom. 

Castiel flows from person to person, shaking hands and flashing a smile at anyone who looks at him. Caught in his wake, Dean follows him and resents every second of it. He’s about three seconds from turning around and heading back to the bus when Castiel turns and catches sight of him. 

Cas’ eyebrows furrow as his smile drops, to be replaced with a small frown of confusion. Then, he smiles, not the huge glad-handing monstrosity offered out to the rest of the coaches, but something tiny and private. Effortlessly, Cas melts back to Dean’s side. When the next coach greets him, Cas shakes his hand and in the same breath says, “And let me introduce my co-coach, Dean Winchester.” 

Startled out of his spiel, the other coach stutters, but he recovers quickly and offers his hand to Dean. Dean takes it, smiling insincerely and hating the stupid, garish bowtie settled at the base of the coach's fleshy throat. “Wasn’t aware that you needed a co-coach Milton, the way that your team performed last year.” The coach addresses Cas over Dean’s shoulder and Dean allows himself to hate him a little more. 

Cas laughs, but Dean knows his real laugh, something rich, rumbling, and deep. This one is brittle and bright, and it scrapes across Dean’s nerves, still raw from Coach Douchebag’s words. But then Cas’ shoulder hits his, except this time, instead of moving away it stays, bleeding warm through Dean’s bicep. 

“Dean’s brought a whole new perspective to the team, one which was sorely needed. Last year’s team was solid, but I’d expect wonderful things from this year’s team.” 

Cas’ shoulder never leaves. In fact, it presses harder, the sharp bone digging into the meat of Dean’s arm. Dean’s eyes slant over to look at Cas’ face and he takes in the sharp smile and challenging tilt of his head. It’s an entirely different experience to not be on the receiving end of it, and for the first time, Dean thinks that he can understand why so many people were willing to bend over backwards for Cas. There’s something uniquely powerful in being the reason behind that look. 

Bolstered on that moment, and the memory of Cas’ shoulder against his, the rest of the coaches’ meeting passes in a haze for Dean. The tournament organizer goes over the rules, his delivery tired and dry, but Dean listens intently. The last thing he wants to is to make a fool out of himself. He learns that there are three rounds to any match: the first round is fifteen toss-up questions and anyone from either team is able to answer them, as long as they buzz in first with the correct answer. The second round questions are directed to a specific team, who are then allowed to confer for the answer, though the other team can steal the answer if the first team doesn’t come up with a correct answer. The third and last round is identical to the first round. It all seems simple enough. 

He and Cas return to the small huddle of their team. Cas’ previous stress has vanished like it never existed. All that remains are the echoes of his assured steps on the overly waxed tile floor. Even Dean finds himself looking towards Cas, caught in the riptide of his inexorable confidence. 

“We’ll be playing Mill Valley first, then De Soto, and finally Belmont. You saw them all last year, so there shouldn’t be any major surprises as far as their ability levels.” 

“Which team had the bow ties?” Dean murmurs.

Cas shoots him a look which could be amused or irritated, depending on the lighting. “That would be Belmont.” 

Dean nods. “Beat them. Definitely beat them.” 

It might not be the most professional thing to say but it’s the right thing to say. Kevin’s face cracks into a smile, Claire returns to her usual slouch, and Patience’s face loses its hunted look. Even Cas huffs a soft laugh. 

“All right, first up, I want Kevin, Patience, Claire, and Alfie. You know what to do.” 

Dean watches the four of them go up and sit at the table and wonders if this is what mothers felt like when sending their sons to war. They each grab the button for their buzzer, thumbs poised and ready. Cas settles in the seat next to him, scoresheet and pen ready. “They’ll be fine,” he whispers to Dean, just as the first question is read. 

Over the past weeks, Dean has become accustomed to Cas’ behavior during practice. There, Cas is in his element, loose and relaxed. Most of the time, he grades papers and only spares his attention to answer questions to which no human should have answers. 

Cas during a match is another beast altogether. He doesn’t even whisper the answer, though Dean can tell whenever he has the answer, because he’ll tap out the beats of syllables with the tip of his pen. He stares at the players with the intensity shown by hawks, almost to the point that Dean’s surprised that his eyes haven’t bored holes through Kevin’s forehead. Caught for something to do with his hands, Dean doodles on a spare sheet of paper, scratching out abstract designs throughout the questions. 

At question ten, the sharp corner of a piece of paper pushes underneath the nail of Dean’s index finger. Dean glances at Cas, and then back at the paper. Four names are written in small, neat script: Kevin, Inias, Krissy, and Patience. Over top of them, is written simply, _Round Two lineup?_ Dean blinks, reads it again just to be sure that he’s not hallucinating, and then looks at Cas. 

If it were anyone else, then Dean would assume that they’re patronizing him, but there’s no hint in Cas’ profile. All of his attention is focused on the four sitting up front, without even a look to spare for Dean. Cas taps the pen against his lower lip, grimacing as the team takes a moment too long to answer a question. 

Dean scrawls out a _sure why not?_ on the paper and pushes it back towards Cas. He has to push the edge of the paper against Cas’ fingers a few times before he looks down and sees it. Cas spares it half a look before he nods in satisfaction. He has yet to look at Dean, and surprisingly, it doesn’t bother Dean nearly half as much as it should. 

The first round ends and substitutions for both teams are made. Dean watches it all, with a growing sense of serenity. Somehow, he knows, everything is going to be fine. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Everything is most certainly not fine. 

Belmont High School, they of the infamous bowties, is their last opponent, so of course, they’re the one opponent that looks like they might actually win. Over the course of one and a half rounds, Dean has developed a personal dislike of both the coach and the team, and the thought of losing to the coach's smarmy grin is unthinkable. If he thought that it would help, Dean would put himself up at the table. He could still pass for a senior. 

Cas’ leg jiggles underneath the table, the only hint to his mood. Throughout the night he’s been Mr. Robot, barely cracking a smile at their first two victories, because he knew that the real test would come at the third match. The third match which, barring a miracle, it looks like they will lose. 

The paper slides across the table towards him once more. Castiel’s writing becomes smaller and thicker when he’s under pressure and it takes Dean a moment longer to decipher it. He makes out the names Patience, Kevin, Alfie, and Inias, for the second round. Dean studies the names and frowns in thought. All four of those players are strong, but something about the lineup seems wrong to him. 

He’s noticed that the directed rounds tend to have to more math and physics based questions than the tossup rounds. This makes Patience and Kevin natural choices, but Inias and Aflie’s strengths lie in history and government. To the best of his recollection, there have only been three history questions in the directed round all night. 

Krissy’s knowledge is wide, but she’s shown a remarkable aptitude for engineering questions. Dean hasn’t gone against Cas’ wishes all night, but for the first time he takes his pencil and crosses out Inias’ name, replacing it instead with Krissy. He slides the paper back to Cas, biting his lips as Cas takes it in hand. 

Dean can see the exact moment when Cas reaches his correction. One thin eyebrow rises and Cas’ lips purse--in thought? In disdain? In anger? Dean watches him, restraining the thumping of his leg only through supreme force of will. 

It’s still impossible to read Cas. As the first round ends, Dean still has no idea what he’s going to do, even as the reader asks for substitutions. Cas shoves his fingers into his eyes, squeezes his temples, and sighs. “Patience, Kevin, Alfie, and Krissy.” 

Dean’s heart beats a hard thump-thump against the restraints of his sternum. He turns to look at Krissy, whose eyes are wide and terrified, and gives her what he hopes is an encouraging smile. It feels a little more like some sadist is grabbing the edges of his lips and twisting them in obscene directions, but it must look all right because Krissy takes her seat at the front of the room. 

“This had better work,” Cas mutters, the end of his pen tapping viciously against his teeth, to the point where Dean worries for his enamel. 

“It’ll work,” Dean returns, trying to convince Cas with the force of his conviction. He turns his attention to Krissy, who looks ready to bolt, and tries to beam the thought into her head: _Don’t screw up, don’t screw up, don’t screw up_. 

The first questions fly by. 1A goes to Lawrence, while 1B goes to Belmont. Neither team drops the ball until 3B, when the captain of Belmont’s team freezes. Time runs out for Belmont and the judge turns to Kevin, who is acting as captain for Lawrence. 

“Do you have an answer?” 

Kevin looks up from his paper. Deer caught in the headlights of oncoming sixteen-wheelers have looked more at ease than Kevin Tran looks right now. If Lawrence comes up with the correct answer, it could be their chance to pull ahead, but from the blatant panic blaring from both Kevin and Patience, Dean can tell that they don’t have the answer. 

Krissy whispers, her words lost but her tone urgent and sharp, as she shoves a paper towards Kevin. Kevin seizes it and blindly scans over it. The judge speaks again, her voice less patient. “Lawrence High, do you have an answer?”

“Nine over twenty-five?” Kevin’s voice comes out in a thin, reedy squeak. To his left, Krissy looks like she might vomit. 

The judge scans through the answer, while Dean’s stomach roils mercilessly. Across the table, Castiel freezes, his pen cap clutched between his teeth. “Yes,” she says. All the air goes out of Dean’s lungs like he’s been punched. “Ten points to Lawrence.”

If possible, Krissy looks even more like she might vomit. Dean can sympathize. 

Cas only smiles around his pen, hums softly in satisfaction.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

After that, it becomes a rout. Belmont, shaken by the theft of their question, starts to fall apart. The directed round ends with Lawrence having stolen at least four more of Belmont’s questions. Dean finally understands what Cas was talking about when he mentioned the team playing as a cohesive whole. All four heads bend towards each other and Kevin looks at each team member for assurance before giving an answer. 

In the third round, Belmont falls apart. Lawrence’s buzzers ring almost constantly, and the answers fall confidently from the team. 

Dean rides high on the wave of victory, all through the third round, and on the bus ride home. He sits at the front and leans his head back against the seat. The team’s excited chatter threatens to overwhelm him but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at their high-pitched laughter. 

He only looks up when the seat next to him depresses and warmth presses against his side. It’s hard, to fit two full grown men side by side on a school bus seat, and Cas ends up pressing him into the cool metal of the window. Dean fights the instinctive flinch away from Cas and then fights the urge to press further into Cas’ body. 

“That was a good call on your part,” Cas says, his voice almost too low to be heard over the shrieks of the team. 

Dean shrugs, unsure of what Cas is looking for. “It just seemed right. You were right about every other lineup.”

Cas’ head nods in time to the bus’ lurching and bumping as he hums again. Dean’s beginning to catalogue that sound as both agreement and dismissal, the sign that Cas’ mind has moved onto other matters. Dean kind of hates the fact that he’s interested to see what those other matters are. 

“We normally go out to dinner after a match,” Cas finally says, slanting his head over to look at Dean. “If you’re interested in joining us.” 

Dean smiles, knocks his elbow into Cas’ side. “You know that I’m always ready for something to eat.” 

Cas smiles at that, his teeth and eyes gleaming in the flashes of streetlights thrown through the windows. “Excellent,” he says, and Dean can wholeheartedly believe that Cas actually wants him around. 

When Cas moves back to his own seat, Dean’s side is cold and his skin aches with the memory of Cas’ body pressed against his. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

In Lawrence, Kansas, Friday nights mean one thing: high school football. 

Despite being the sixth largest city in Kansas, Lawrence still holds a slavish devotion of high school football usually only found in the most rural of schools, and the weekly game is less of a pastime than it is a religion. The whole community gathers in the football stadium, crushed so tightly together that even when the temperature drops later in the season, there’s no worry of spectators growing cold. 

Dean always attends these games, partly out of a sense of obligation, partly out of sheer entertainment. He loves the roar of the crowd, the thrill of the game, and he always feels a proprietary sense of pride when he recognizes one of his students on the field. Sam, Jess, Benny, and Jo always join him on these outings--Sam, out of a weird sense of obligation to his alma mater, Benny, for the halftime show, and Jess and Jo, out of a bloodthirsty love of competition. 

“Now you’re going to call holding?” Jess bellows in the direction of the referee, standing up and cupping her hands around her mouth. “What does it take to get a call to go against you?” 

“Come on ref, let’s see the check they cut you!” Jo echoes, a petite vision of wrath. 

Sam tugs at Jess’ wrist, his neck and ears vibrant red. Dean doesn’t know why he bothers. The five of them have been playing this game for two years now, and Jess and Jo have never bothered to try and hide their natures. Any competition gets Jess’ blood pumping: she’s been known to shout at the TV during dog shows. It’s what makes her such a good lawyer and what makes her absolutely unbearable to sit near during football games. And Jo just thrives on violence and chaos, like a tiny pixie of destruction. 

Dean loves both women, he really does, but by halftime he needs some space. The ringing in his ears will thank him as well. “I’m going to get something to drink,” he shouts to Benny. “Do you want anything?” 

Benny waves him off, eyes fixed on the band. Dean rolls his eyes. As much as Jess and Jo love football, is how much Benny loves the marching band. Dean’s never known him to leave his seat during halftime, not even when a drunk senior vomited almost directly on top of him. That kind of devotion Dean has never known, nor does he particularly want to. 

“Get me a water!” Jess shouts, her eyes bright with the fury of sport. “I’m thirsty!”

Sam shoots Dean the grateful look of the long-suffering. Dean can’t help but smile. He’s glad that his little brother finally gets to experience high school football in all its glory. While Sam was a student here, he was always too busy studying to enjoy the finer points of secondary education. Not that Dean could enjoy the games either. He was always working Friday nights, too eager for the money that weekend shifts brought to take a night off for anything as mundane as a sporting event. 

At the concession stand, Dean pays for three bottles of water and says hi to some of his students. It’s a little stroke to his ego, to have his students willingly seek him out for conversation or even just a greeting. It’s one of his favorite parts of his job, to interact with his students outside of the narrow confines of the school walls, and Dean’s smiling when he walks back up to the stadium. 

His smile grows when he looks down towards the end of the bleachers and sees the figure standing at the end of the walkway. He can’t see their face but he only knows one person with that ramrod straight posture and eternally mussed hair. He shoves the water bottles he’s juggling into the pocket of his sweatshirt and runs his damp hands through his hair before he realizes that he’s being ridiculous. 

“I didn’t think that this was quite your scene.” If this were a movie then the words would be low and purring, soft enough that he’d have to lean in close to the waiting recipient, close enough that his breath would do half the work of the seduction for him. But this is Dean’s life and he ends up shouting to be heard over the noise of the crowd. Changing the delivery method makes him a little less Casanova and a little more pathetic loser, but if Castiel minds then he doesn’t say anything. 

“Really?” Somehow, Cas doesn’t have to shout, almost like the crowd respects him enough to lower their volume. “And what would you imagine is my scene?” 

Dean rocks back onto his heels, considering. Dressed in a dark peacoat and black jeans, Castiel would look perfectly at home in a variety of settings: art gallery, opera performance, dimly lit bar, nightclub… “I don’t know,” Dean finally admits, smiling in spite of himself. “Not this though.” 

He gestures to the crowd, including himself, dressed in muddy boots, comfy jeans, and a Lawrence High sweatshirt chosen at random from one of his drawers. Castiel’s eyes flick up and down his body and Dean tries not to squirm underneath his gaze. 

“I like to support my school as much as the next person,” Castiel says, turning his attention back to the field where the cheerleaders are performing their routine. Dean comes to stand beside him, ignoring how the water bottles he has shoved into the pocket of his hoodie make him look vaguely pregnant. Castiel slides his eyes over, his lips quirking in the sly smile that makes something uncomfortable wriggle in Dean’s stomach. “But tonight’s my game duty. I’m required to be here and,” he gestures to the crowd behind him, “supervise.” 

Dean hums. Game duty is something that all the teachers in school are required to perform. They show up to football, volleyball, and basketball games, taking tickets or ‘supervising’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. “I’d like to see you break up a fight,” comes out of Dean’s mouth before he can even think to stop it. 

The smile on Castiel’s mouth widens, giving Dean a tantalizing glimpse of teeth and gums. “Really?” he asks, the slightest hint of a drawl to the words. It’s playful, in a way that Dean never expected from Cas. 

“Yeah,” he smiles back, heart racing as he tries to walk backwards out of this conversation. Friendship is fine, even an occasional flirty remark now and again, but this, this kind of conversation in Dean’s world always leads to _Like to grab a drink later_ which leads to _You know my place is only a few blocks from here_ which leads to _Hey it was fun but I have to be up early in the morning so_ … 

Dean knows, with a solid punch to his gut, that he doesn’t want any of that from Cas. 

Cas, whose smile is losing the 1000 wattage of before, and somehow that’s even worse than the thought that he was accidentally flirting with Cas. “Love to watch you stop someone’s fist with the power of your snark.” 

Cas actually laughs at that, a short bubble brighter than the floodlights above them. “You don’t think that I could wrestle them down?”

Dean’s seen the way that Cas’ biceps strain against the fabric of his shirts; he’s willing to bet on there being strength in that wiry frame. But acknowledging that will resurrect everything that Dean’s trying to bury, so he just curls his lips in a shit-eating grin guaranteed to make Sam squint in disapproval. “I’d trust to the power of your sarcasm every time. And if that doesn’t work you could always glare them to death.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Cas says, in the tone of voice which says that he knows exactly what Dean’s talking about. 

The cheerleaders finish their routine, and both sidelines start moving again, ready for the second half to begin. The water bottles in his hoodie have sweat through the fabric to his skin and he can’t spend that much more time away without someone coming to look for him. 

“Hey, come sit with us,” Dean says, mouth once again moving without his permission. 

Cas’ smile remains, but it looks stupid now, when it’s paired with his stupidly large eyes blinking in confusion. Dean is now presented with a choice: he could laugh off his offer, say that he’ll see Cas on Monday, and go back to his seat. Or, he could do the stupid, stupid thing and repeat his offer. 

Dean’s stupidity knows no bounds, because not only does he pick option two, he even tugs on Cas’ elbow, forcing him to take a step in his direction. “You’ll have my sister-in-law and sister screaming in your ear, it’ll be great,” he says. 

Cas finally blinks, his face losing its gobsmacked look. “I can’t...I have duty,” he says, eyes flicking from the crowd, to the field, to Dean. 

Dean jerks his head towards the stands. “You can supervise great from the stands. Better than you could down here.” He can sense Cas wavering and he ruthlessly presses his advantage. “Come on Cas, it’s not like anything’s going to happen anyway. Even if it does, there are, count em, one, two, three, four whole deputies who are actually getting paid to supervise. Play hooky.” 

Cas’ eyes perform the same journey through the stands once more before coming back to land on Dean. “If this comes up in my performance evaluation, then I’m going to say that you kidnapped me.”

“Awesome,” Dean blurts out. In a million years, he hadn’t thought that he would be able make Cas turn his back on his duty. “You can say that I threatened you, hit you over the head, whatever.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Cas actually has to shout now, as they climb up towards the seats. “Maybe make you sign some sort of paperwork attesting to that fact.” 

“Sam’s a lawyer,” Dean shouts, pointing along to where his brother sits, in all of his hippie glory. “He could whip something official up.” 

There are several things which Dean had not anticipated. One is the fact that adding another person to their row creates a seating crisis that is only solved when Jess moves herself to Sam’s lap and Jo ends up halfway in Benny’s. Dean figures that they’ll be fine; the two of them barely sit down during the game anyway. 

The other difficulty comes when everyone realizes not only that Dean came back with another person, but who exactly, that person is. Benny at least, schools his expression into friendly recognition. He tips his cabbie’s hat to Cas and Cas nods at him, and that’s the end of that. Jo, however, openly gapes for a moment before someone (Dean bets Benny) pinches her. Her smile is honest when she greets Cas but her eyes promise Dean that they’ll have a conversation about this, and soon. 

“Cas, this is my brother, Sam, and his fiance Jess. Sam, Jess, this is Cas Milton. He works at the school too.” Over Cas’ shoulder, Dean can see Jo mouthing _Cas?_ at him, her mouth wide and over exaggerated. 

Someone schooled in the Winchester method of non-verbal communication could read the book printed in the tilt of Sam’s head, the widening of his eyes, and the purse of his lips. All of these promise yet another conversation in Dean’s future. Luckily, Sam has always been an impeccable gentleman, and after only a moment’s shock, he holds his hand out. Cas shakes it, smiles, maybe says something nice. Dean’s too busy dodging an elbow from Jo to really hear them. 

“I thought you hated him!” Jo hisses. Her knuckles finally find their way into Dean’s arm, digging into the cluster of nerves just above his elbow. 

“Maybe, ow, maybe I don’t!” Dean hisses back. When Cas comes to sit down he has to break away from Jo in a way that can’t help but look suspicious. 

The third problem comes back to seating. Even though Jo and Jess are standing up, Dean, Sam, Benny, and Cas are all shoved together. Being shoved against Benny is nothing new for Dean; quite a few of his Saturday nights have ended this way. Being shoved against Cas, from shoulder to hip to thigh however...That’s something new. 

Every time Cas so much as shifts his weight, the motion is telegraphed to Dean. It gets worse when he leans over to speak to Sam and the reverberations of his voice travel through to Dean. It becomes apocalyptic when Cas shifts closer to Dean, near enough that Dean can see the minuscule nick on Cas’ jaw where he must have cut himself shaving that morning. 

“Your sister is very...enthusiastic,” Cas observes, indicating Jo with a nod of his head. 

Enthusiastic would be putting it mildly. Berserker Viking warriors would look placid next to her. Jo’s ponytail has started to escape its confines, and she dances from foot to foot, her eyes fixed on the field with a focus usually reserved for snipers and stalkers. 

At some point Dean is going to have to clarify his tangled family ties to Cas, but for the moment it all works. “I’ve got some sedatives for her somewhere.” He leans in close enough that his jaw brushes Cas’ shoulder as he speaks. “Since this is your first game with us, you get to do the honors.” 

The look Cas gives him is skeptical, but just questioning enough to make Dean put on his best innocent face. “First game?” Cas asks instead, flooring Dean. 

He hadn’t noticed his words, but he isn’t willing to take them back. “You think that the three of us are enough for them?” Dean gestures to Jo and Jess, who are both waving their arms in an attempt to distract the field goal kicker at the opposite end of the field, facing away from them. “We need all the help we can get.” 

“Of course,” Cas says, something gentle in his voice and expression. “Always here to help.” 

It’s supposed to be a manly pat on the knee, something that Dean’s done to Sam millions of times. Instead, Dean’s hand lands on Cas’ knee and it stays there for a second too long. Long enough for Dean to confirm that yes, those thighs are entirely muscle, no fat there, nope. Cas’ knee shifts underneath his hand. 

Dean’s hand shifts, reluctant to leave its new home on Cas’ leg. Every instinct he possesses screams at him to do something because this is not what friends do and goddammit, he and Cas have both made it perfectly clear that friendship is all they want from each other. But then his eyes meet Cas’ and his hand doesn’t move. 

Jo takes the option out of his hands when she whirls around in glee and the back of her hand connects squarely with Dean’s nose. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

In the end, it’s just a bloody nose, but Dean is going to milk it for all that it’s worth. 

“Could have been broken,” he says, exaggerating the thickness of his voice as he presses a tissue to his nose. He shows Jo the bright red against the white and does his best to look close to death. “Could have shoved my cartilage into my brain and then what would have happened?”

“Shut up,” Jo mutters, shoving another tissue at him. “I’ll buy you a drink later, happy?”

“Two drinks,” Dean immediately replies. Jo nods and Dean presses his luck. “And first choice on the juke.” Jo narrows her eyes and Dean waves the bloody tissue at her like the worst kind of battle flag. 

“You’ll come with us?” Sam directs the question towards Cas. Within the space of nineteen minutes, he’s decided that Cas is the best thing since sliced bread. Somehow, he and Cas have managed to hold a conversation through Jess’ raging and Dean’s injury. Dean would feel a little neglected, if it weren’t for the pleased warmth in his chest whenever he sees Cas nodding at something Sam said. 

“Come with you?” Cas’ eyes flit to Dean before he turns back to Sam. 

“We usually go out and get a drink after the game. Just a way to wind down, remind ourselves that we’re really adults.” Sam’s smile could light whole cities and Cas isn’t immune. Dean can feel the agreement in the loosening of Cas’ body against his. 

“If you’re sure.” Cas’ eyes flick back to Dean, almost like he’s asking his permission, before he looks back at Sam. “I don’t have any other plans for the evening.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, shoving his shoulder into Cas’, pretending like he doesn’t see the pleased smile dashing across Cas’ face. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The Roadhouse doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it will always remain one of Dean’s favorite places. 

The Roadhouse used to be Ellen’s, before she got tired of having two jobs and sold it to Ash. Dean remembers many nights spent in one of the back booths, trying to sneak beers underneath Ellen’s watchful eye. It became a game between them, one that Ellen always won, without much effort on her part. Dean’s not sure what he would have done if he’d actually gotten a beer. That wasn’t the point of the game. The point of the game was trying to outsmart Ellen, and Dean has yet to do that. 

Since his amicable takeover, Ash hasn’t changed much. He updated the upholstery on several of the booths, redid the bathrooms, and improved the sound system. But the atmosphere remains the same--just on the right side of trashy, slightly ratty around the edges, but cozy somehow in spite of all that. 

It doesn’t occur to Dean to be worried about Cas’ reaction until they’re inside. With their sweatshirts, ragged jeans, and boots, the rest of them blend into the background of the bar. Cas, with his coat that probably cost more than Dean’s monthly grocery allowance, looks out of place against the worn wood grain of the walls. 

Dean needn’t have worried. Cas follows them to the back and slides himself into the booth, in between Dean and Jess, and orders a beer, “Whatever comes in a bottle”, and Dean relaxes into the cheap plastic. 

“Jo’s paying for mine,” he makes sure to tell Ash, when he arrives, in all of his mulleted glory, with their drinks. 

“Right on brother,” Ash says, flipping his hair over his shoulder as he heads back to the bar. Dean has to smile as Cas actually cranes his head to get a better look of Ash as he jumps over the bar. His boots scuff across the bar and that can’t be sanitary. Cas tilts his head, looking all the world like an anthropologist cataloging a new species. 

Jo follows Cas’ gaze. “Ash is a genius!” Jo tells Cas. She must still be stuck in football mode, as the decibel level of her voice makes Jess, sitting next to her, wince. For his part, Cas just nods and takes a long pull from his bottle. Dean can’t help but watch how his lips wrap around the rim of the bottle, how Cas’ throat bobs as he swallows. 

Friendship. Goddammit. 

He glances around for something, anything, to take his mind off of how Cas sighs when he comes up for air, a short, crisp, _Ah_ , and he lights on the jukebox in the corner. “First play!” he says, downing the rest of his whiskey in one pull, and shoving Benny in the side until he moves to let Dean out of the booth. 

Dean chooses his songs without much deliberation and smiles as the intro to _Hell’s Bells_ tolls through the Roadhouse. Back at the booth, everyone groans, except for Cas. “Not this crap again!” Jo shouts. Now that she’s gotten a drink in her, the volume has increased to deafening levels. 

“Dean always chooses the same three songs,” Jess explains to Cas, evidently taking pity on his confused look. 

“And are they...bad songs?”

“No!” Dean shouts, over the rest of the table’s resounding _Yeses_. Cultural swine, the lot of them, and he tells them that, while dodging a straw wrapper thrown by his very mature brother. 

“It doesn’t seem that awful,” Cas says tentatively, as Dean slides back into place next to him. 

Dean beams at him. “See Cas, that’s why you’re my favorite.” He slings an arm around Cas’ shoulders, shaking him slightly. Cas’ dark head tips precariously towards Dean’s shoulder before he rights himself. “This is my favorite,” he announces to the table. 

“I thought I was your favorite!” Jess protests, which sparks a long round of debate as to who is whose favorite. Dean smiles, content in chaos of his manufacturing, savoring another glass of whiskey delivered by the ever-dependable Ash. He likes the way that his arm feels around Cas’ shoulders, likes it so much that he doesn’t move it until Cas leans back in his seat. 

The next of Dean’s songs plays and he beats out the percussion on the table. By now he’s two whiskeys in and his fingertips are tingling. He knows that he’s edging on giddy but he can’t quite reign it in: his family is here, they’re all happy, and even Cas is laughing as Jess leans close to him. How could he not be happy? 

The energy at the table propels them all out into the Roadhouse. Dean’s giddiness must be catching, because he can’t remember the last time Jo laughed that hard, her head thrown back against Benny’s shoulder at something Sam says. Jess alternately cajoles and bullies Sam until they’re standing in an unoccupied section of the floor, swaying back and forth to a song never intended for dancing. As for Dean, the pool table in the corner calls his name. 

“Do you play?” Cas jerks slightly, eyes blinking back into focus. He had been staring into the expanse of the bar, a tiny smile threatening to quirk his mouth. Dean almost feels guilty interrupting his thoughts, but he can’t leave the guy alone. “Do you play?” Dean repeats, jerking his thumb at the table. 

“Never really had occasion.” 

“No time like the present. Come on, I’ll teach you.” Dean stands over Cas and doesn’t move until Cas inches closer to the edge of the booth. He grins once Cas is out and leads him back to the table, drinks in hand. 

He loves the elegance of the pool table, the way that the soft green felt seems to glow underneath the soft lights. The stick is solid in his hands as he chalks the end. He doesn’t play for money anymore, unless it’s a friendly game between him and Sam. Back in the day, when he never knew where his and Sam’s next meal was coming from, he remembers hustling. Having to fake ignorance just to con some barfly into taking advantage of the brash kid, only to earn a quick hundred bucks. He’d earned himself quite a few shiners back in those days, but Sam had always eaten, so Dean’s willing to count it as a win. 

He pushes those memories away as he hands a stick to Cas. Cas’ eyes follow his every move and he chalks the end of his stick. “You know the basics, right?” Dean asks, racking up the balls. He shakes the triangle, before lifting. 

“I know the premise behind the game,” Cas says, and who the hell talks like that? Obviously, he hasn’t had enough to drink. “But I’ll let you go first. Model for me.” The last part is said with the tiniest of smirks, like the little shit doesn’t know exactly what speaking in pedagogical terms does to Dean. 

“If I break then you’re not going to get a chance to play,” Dean warns, not cocky exactly, but with just that little touch of arrogance that’s gotten him kissed or punched more times than he can count. 

Cas’ left eyebrow performs a slow creep up his forehead. “Break then,” he says, and goddamn, Dean wasn’t aware that voice could get any lower. He paces for a moment before placing the cue ball carefully on the table. 

“Watch and learn Cas,” he says, before he strikes. 

It’s a clean break and Dean smiles as the balls scatter across the table. “Stripes,” he says, noting how the ball falls into the pocket. 

“So I’m to guess that the object of the game is to hit the balls into the holes,” Cas says. He leans over the table and his shadow glances across Dean. 

“Astute observation,” Dean grunts as he lines up his next shot. He glances over to Cas and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. Cas is sat up on the edge of the table, one thigh carelessly resting on the edge. As Dean looks on, Cas takes another pull from his bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. _Friendship, friendship, friendship_ , Dean chants in his head, before he takes another shot. 

Another of his balls ends up in the pocket but it’s not as clean a shot as he could hope. Dean frowns and tries to ignore Cas’ hand on the felt, balancing him as he leans over the table. Either Cas is the most oblivious person in the world or he’s the most infuriating. 

His next shot goes wide. Dean can only blink in astonishment. His shots never go wide, not when he doesn’t want them to. Cas slides off the table and scans the table. “So my goal is to hit the solid balls into the holes.” He sounds like he’s discussing heart surgery, rather than a barroom game. 

“Pretty much,” Dean agrees, putting aside his shock in order to instruct. “Except for the 8-ball.” He points at the innocuous looking black ball. “You save that for the very end.” 

Cas hums, and Dean knows that the cogs in his mind are already whirring miles away. “Need any help?” Dean asks. “With, uh, your stick?” And there must be a way to say that that’s not blatantly sexual but damned if Dean can find it. 

Cas doesn’t quite do an impersonation of a shocked Victorian lady but he comes damn close. “I think I’m good, thanks.” And yeah, he looks good, leaning over the table to examine his shot. Dean very carefully does not look at how his jeans hug his hips and thighs, but that means that he’s subjected to watching Cas’ hands. He examines the capable curve of Cas’ fingers cradling the stick, and wonders how he got so weak. 

Was it always this hard to be friends with someone? The last real friend Dean made was Charlie and that was almost easier than breathing. Charlie is just someone that you can’t help but love. They were introduced and within thirty minutes they were chatting about whether the prequels of Star Wars provided an accurate look into Jedi culture, and by the end of the day Dean was fairly convinced that he’d always known Charlie. 

Benny was almost as easy. Dean had stopped by the culinary arts room, just to introduce himself, and been lured inside by the scent of cinnamon wafting from the ovens. He’d been met by a man in an apron, holding a pie dish between his oven-mitted hands, and if that wasn’t one of his wet dreams, then he didn’t know what was. Within a single conversation, Benny had moved himself out of ‘Potential Husband’ territory into ‘Beloved Procurer of Delicious Treats’, which was fine with Dean, seeing as he values treats over weddings. 

But the point was, that Dean makes friends easily. Cas...Cas has not been easy. From the beginning, this friendship has been a struggle. Dean’s had to fight Cas, had to fight his own brain, but even with that...There’s still something so easy about Cas, like when Dean’s with him, some little piece that he didn’t know he was missing just slots into place. Dean makes friends easily but it’s usually superficial. Cas, however, fits into Dean’s life like he belongs, like he should have been there all along. 

So Dean can shove those thoughts about Cas’ hands, and his thighs, and his voice, and his hair, all to the back of his mind. If that’s the price he has to pay to keep this, then that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay. 

Of course, this resolution becomes more difficult to keep when Cas, six feet of muscle and concentrated intent, takes his shot. For a wild moment, Dean envies the cue ball for being the recipient of all that focus. Then, he can only watch in disbelief, as Cas’ ball whirls into the pocket. That shot is swiftly followed by another, and then another, all technically perfect. Cas stands up. He’s too much of a gentleman to gloat, but there’s some victorious about his stance nonetheless. 

Dean frowns. “You said that you’d never played.” 

“I said that I’d never had occasion. It’s all math, really, when you think about it,” and god, Dean should hate anyone who sounds that calm and smug but he can’t quite manage to drum up the feeling. 

“It’s about skill,” Dean says, a challenge lurking in his voice and expression. Cas’ smile is an enigma, lurking somewhere in his eyes and the shadows of his cheeks and Dean would like to chase that smile out into the sun. He’s deciding how to do just that, until he hears the song drifting out of the jukebox. 

“Jo!” he bellows, his voice loud enough to make Cas flinch. “We had a deal!” 

“We never shook!” Jo shouts back, and Ash should have cut her off at least two drinks ago. Her cheeks are flushed and her ponytail has finally lost its battle against gravity, causing her blonde hair to cascade around her shoulders. “Now sing Winchester! You know you want to!”

“I’d rather swallow crushed glass!” Dean shouts back. Luckily, most of the weekend crowd’s disappeared, leaving the regulars behind. These battle-hardened soldiers barely waste half a blink on Jo and Dean’s antics, not when there’s drinking to be done. 

“Sing Dean,” Cas tells him, a wicked little grin darting across his face. “It would be rude to refuse a lady.” 

“Cas, if you think that Jo’s a lady then you’ve got a lot to learn about women,” Dean says, but he can’t stop the bubble of happiness from rising in his chest, to the point where he throws his head back and bellows, “ _And even as I wander, I’m keeping you in sight, you’re a candle in the window, on a cold, dark winter’s night, and I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might…_ ” He warbles the last word obnoxiously long, his voice breaking halfway through, but it doesn’t matter, not when Jo’s voice is high enough to crack glass, not when Cas’ laugh shakes through him, from his scalp down to his toes. 

“ _And I can’t fight this feeling anymore! I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for! It’s time to bring this ship into the shore, and throw away the oars, forever_!” 

“Beautiful,” Cas tells him, eyes dancing in the dim light, and yeah, friendship, but something settles in Dean, familiar and comfortable. And maybe REO Speedwagon is the thing of pop dreams, but sometimes they get things right in the end. 

“ _Baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore..._ “ 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Jo's love of REO Speedwagon will never fail to amuse me.   
> 2\. Slow burn, what slow burn? Stop flirting, PLEASE.


	7. the sadness turned to trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, apologies. Life has been a literal nightmare, so have some tooth-rotting Halloween fluff (with just the tiniest bit of angst)!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The rest of October passes by in a glorious blur. The bite in the air gets progressively sharper as the leaves fall in droves from the trees. Dean pulls out his leather jacket and appreciates its warmth on the chilly mornings. Jack o’lanterns and black cats abound from every street corner as Halloween approaches and Charlie is beside herself in glee. 

“You are coming, right?” 

Dean glances up from his computer. Charlie perches on one of his desks and bounces her knees with impatience. Her shirt is a garish Halloween nightmare, with a black cat leering at him from underneath the brim of a witch’s hat. Caught off guard by the question, Dean motions to her, _Go on_ , and tries to look anywhere else other than the cat’s limpid yellow eyes. They look a little too self-aware for his peace of mind. 

“Halloween party, my house, the event of the season.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “The one that I have every year and yet the one that you forget about every year?” 

“Oh that.” Charlie’s annual Halloween parties are the things of legends, where kegs are drunk, mistakes are made, tables are broken, and neighbors are scandalized. Dean wouldn’t miss it for the world. “Yeah, of course.” He stretches his legs underneath his desk and folds his arms behind his head. 

Charlie’s expression takes on a sudden shrewdness. She's known him long enough to recognize when he's about to ask her for a favor. No doubt she'll enjoy holding this over him. Dean's face twists in a rictus grin, but he keeps his posture and face casual, super casual, look at us, just two pals having a good time, talking about friend things. “I was thinking,” he begins.

Charlie purses her lips as her eyebrows creep towards each other. “Just ask for whatever you want, Winchester.” 

The phrases ‘Winchester’ and ‘ask for what you want’ should never be uttered in the same sentence, but Dean doesn’t bother to correct her. Besides, he actually does want something from her. 

“Thought I might ask Cas to come along.” Casual, casual, super chill, because there’s nothing weird here, just a friend, asking a friend, to bring another friend to a party. He did this all throughout college. Why would this time be any different? 

Because Charlie is evil and her one mission in life is to ruin his life. 

Charlie all but sniffs the air, a predator scenting its quarry. Like a good little rabbit, Dean remains stationary. He can’t seem to wipe the stupid grin off his face, though now it’s undoubtedly slipped into something similar to a grimace. 

“Thought that you’d ask Cas.” Charlie repeats what he said, though Dean’s almost positive that he didn’t put that much of an inflection on Cas’ name. “Mr. Dreamy of the History Department?”

“Mr. Socially Inept of Lawrence High. I thought that I’d bring him out of cold storage and force him to interact with real humans. Maybe he'll pick up some more data to add to his hard drive.” 

The dubious expression on Charlie’s face lets him know that she doesn’t, for a minute, believe what he’s saying. That’s fine, because Dean doesn’t either.

Cas is perfectly able to follow the niceties of human interaction, when he chooses. That’s the caveat that Dean has to keep in mind, because, it turns out, most of the time Cas doesn’t have the patience to follow the norms of human behavior. Cas, he’s discovered, is a surly bastard who is quickly irritated with the foibles of mundane humans. This irritation presents itself as rudeness and Cas doesn’t do much to blunt that impression. Castiel has a temper which he doesn't often bother to hide, and he can snap quickly and explosively. 

But Cas is also one of the most gentle people that Dean’s ever met. He’s just so...soft, sometimes, the way that he’ll stop dead in the parking lot and watch the soft pinks and oranges light up the evening sky. The way that he’ll stop a student in the hallway, just to ask if they’re all right.The satisfied smile after he correctly guesses an answer in practice. The quiet, surprised hum as Dean presents him with dinner. 

Charlie hums in thought as she strokes her chin like a Bond villain. The cat on her shirt judges him. “And you’re inviting him out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Call it my service to the school.” If it’s possible, the cat purses its lips in disapproval. Underneath Charlie’s silence, Dean breaks like a cheap glass. “Look Charlie, say yes or say no, it’s not really going to ruin my day one way or the other, but can you stop busting my balls? Please?” 

Charlie’s eyes gleam wickedly. “It’s just funny, isn’t it? A month and a half ago, you were foaming at the mouth whenever anyone mentioned his name. And now you two are attached at the hip.” 

Dean shrugs, helplessly. She’s not wrong, but he thinks that there’s more to it than just that. He’d rather chew off his own tongue than tell Charlie that, but it doesn’t mean that it isn’t true. “Does that mean that you don’t want me to bring him?” 

Charlie jumps off the student desk and instead perches herself on his desk, sending the careful pile of his papers cascading across the surface. “Frack, no. I think it’s good, you learning how to make friends. Mr. Rogers would be proud.” 

“I’m the bestest neighbor of them all.” 

Charlie smiles, but her eyes are far away. When she speaks, Dean understands why. “I guess that Sam won’t be coming?”

Dean breathes past the hitch of pain in his chest. He’s accustomed to the sharp little twist, a long-ago war wound that never healed properly. He can almost forget it, most days, but around this time of year, the scars flare more easily. 

“He and Jess are staying in.” 

Charlie’s eyes hold a wealth of knowledge. Dean knows that he’s not fooling her, but she’s kind enough to leave it alone. In fact, to show her compassion, her foot darts out and strikes his knee. “Bring Castiel. Just let me know when I can start the wedding bells, all right?” 

Dean’s scoff comes automatically. Charlie spies a relationship behind every instance of eye contact, but she’s reaching if she’s pinning her hopes on him and Cas. Cas, who can yammer on for hours with Jess about the latest project in her firm, but has yet to raise his voice at a football game? Cas, who knows any music, as long as it was written before 1854, but remains befuddled by Black Sabbath and Metallica? 

But then Dean thinks of Cas’ hands, the way that he twirls a pen through his fingers, or how his hair falls into his eyes after a long day. The small wrinkle between his eyes as he concentrates. The way that Dean once asked Cas to help him cut an onion and Cas almost ended up short one fingertip. Or how he can still remember his dream, the slick, raw look of Cas’ lips, the shine in dream-Cas’ eyes as he gazed down at Dean. 

Cas’ voice, flat and unyielding as he says, _“I don’t do relationships.”_ Like relationships were hazelnuts or escargot, something from which one could voluntarily abstain. 

“Don’t worry,” Dean tells Charlie, stretching his smile until it threatens to split his face. “If I think he’s trying to turn me into a Pod Person I’ll make sure that he gets you first.”

“Dream on. You know that I’m one of kind.”

Dean snatches her ankle before her foot has a chance to hit him again, wraps his fingers around the slender bone. He shakes her leg once, relishing in her narrowed eyes. “You’d both better come in costume,” she warns, shaking loose from his grip and kicking him once more in the shin. “If you don’t then…” She lets her voice trail off threateningly and does her best to look menacing. The cat on her sweater sneers at him. 

“You’ve got it,” Dean calls as she leaves his room, waving his hand in a lazy salute. 

It’s only after she leaves that he realizes that he hasn’t yet asked Cas if he’d want to come to Charlie’s party. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Charlie hadn’t been entirely wrong when she said that he and Cas had been attached at the hip for the past few weeks. Between Scholastic Bowl, their senior project proposal, and football games, Cas has become omnipresent in Dean’s life. Dean doesn’t realize just how much so until he’s shoving a tupperware of leftovers into Cas’ hands. Cas protests, with characteristic ill-humor, and Dean insists, bullying in the Winchester way of friendliness and oblique threats. 

“Just take the damn food,” he finally snaps, insistent enough to shut Cas up. “I know that you don’t have anything in your fridge.” He’s not bluffing: the last time he was at Cas’ house he peeked inside his pantry and fridge to find the same depressing assortment of condiments and odd produce. Over the past few weeks, Dean’s discovered that if it can’t be delivered or made in a microwave, it’s highly unlikely that Cas eats it. It’s amazing to him, that someone that intelligent ignores their kitchen to the point of having a useless room in their house. 

The next afternoon he leaves his room to run several copies for the next day. When he comes back, the tupperware, pristinely washed, sits on his desk. An accompanying note would be superfluous; Dean knows who it's from. As he stares at the innocuous plastic, he realizes that he might be in over his head. 

Not that he'll let that thought stop him. Cas can actually make him laugh, though sometimes Cas isn’t quite sure of the joke. Sometimes it’s like Cas is a transplant from another world, or another time. Every time one of Dean’s references goes over his head, Cas squints at him like Dean’s playing an elaborate prank. Dean waits for the caustic bite of Cas’ anger, but it never comes, so he doesn’t bother changing. 

On paper, the time they spend together is devoted to planning the senior project. The first night they set aside for planning, Dean invited Cas out to his favorite 24 hour diner, citing the excuse that if he had to spend another hour underneath the fluorescent lighting of the school, then his eyes would explode. Cas had agreed, albeit with suspicion, which was completely unwarranted. 

Forty-five minutes had been devoted to the project. The rest of the hour and a half had been spent arguing about everything from the cultural relevance of Jane Austen to whether manual or automatic transmissions were preferable. 

“Look Cas,” Dean said, speaking around his mouthful of fries, “all I’m saying is that if you don’t know how to drive a manual then you don’t know how to drive.”

“Is that all you’re saying?” Cas asked. His face was twisted into an immature expression, which was quite unflattering. Dean pointed this out to him, which only caused Cas’ face to screw up more, much to Dean’s delight. 

After that night, it had seemed easier to just go to each other’s houses, as well as more monetarily responsible. And if they were going to houses, then Dean’s townhouse was the obvious choice. Of the two of them, he was the one who had reliable food sources in his kitchen. Also, not that he would ever say it to Cas, Dean is always more comfortable when he’s playing on his hometurf. 

Unlike Cas’ showhome, Dean’s house has all the earmarks of a lived in space. His furniture is squashy and comfortable, chosen mostly for its sleepability. Dean refused to buy a couch that he couldn’t stretch out on, and even his loveseat lets him fall asleep with ease. However, on nights like these, Dean snatches the couch for himself and leaves the loveseat for Cas. Cas is shorter, it makes sense.

After a hard hour’s work, they sprawl on their respective pieces of furniture, papers scattered around them. Cas flips through several lesson plans, but most of his energy seems concentrated on not falling into a doze. Dean’s given up even the flimsy pretense of work and instead flips through channels in hopes of finding something to suit both of them. 

“Here,” Dean says with satisfaction, deciding on reruns of House Hunters. “How’d you like to watch people with too much money search for beautiful residences that they don’t deserve?” 

Cas grunts, his attention more taken by a stray sheet of paper. He squints at the type, before he holds the paper an arm's length away from his face. Dean wonders if anyone’s ever told the man that he desperately needs reading glasses. 

An advertisement for Reese’s screams into the quiet of the living room, which reminds Dean of the important question. Before he can lose his nerve, Dean blurts out, “Next Friday,” which gets him a distracted hum from Castiel. 

When nothing else is forthcoming from Dean, Cas rolls over to look at him. Cas' expression could be described as vaguely annoyed, no surprise there. “What about it?”

“Charlie throws a Halloween party every year, and it’s always pretty awesome. Plenty of booze, lots of bad costumes, tons of candy.” Dean knows that he’s coming dangerously close to babbling and he tries to reign it in, to no avail. “And I don’t know, I figured that you might be communing with the mothership, but just in case you’re spending the evening with the earthlings, I thought that you might be interested in coming. With me. Not like _with_ me, but you know. Whatever.” 

Smooth Winchester, smooth. 

Cas’ left eyebrow has a love affair with his hairline. Even now, it’s trying desperately to reach its lost lover. “You do know that I’ve been to many parties throughout my life,” Cas dryly says. 

“Don’t doubt it.” 

Cas' eyes narrow. “Many parties Dean. I was a college student for double the time that you were. Which gave me double the time to attend parties.” 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to be suspicious. “If you tell me that you wasted time going to parties while you were working on your doctorate, then I swear, I’ll eat this paper.” 

Cas shifts guiltily and Dean smiles in triumph. “All right then, Animal House, you still haven’t answered my question. Would you like an additional opportunity to study the human race close up, or do you need to maintain your distance for maximum objectivity?” 

“Eventually you’re going to run out of alien jokes,” Cas remarks, turning his attention back towards his papers. Which is not really an answer, and Dean is about to point that out to him, when Cas asks, too casually, “Will costumes be required?”

Dean shrugs against the couch. “It’s a Halloween party Cas. You do the math.” 

If he weren’t watching Cas, then he would have missed the sudden tenseness of his posture, the awkward shuffle of papers on his lap. But Dean is watching, now with hawk-like intensity, as Cas coughs and shifts. “Cas,” Dean says, pushing himself up on his elbows, so as to better observe his subject’s reactions, “you do have a Halloween costume, right?” 

Cas’ attention retains its laser-focus on his lap. “It’s just never come up.” 

Dean gapes at him. “How do you not have a Halloween costume? Are you allergic to fun?” It’s only after the question is out in the open that Dean considers that is a distinct possibility. 

Now that Dean’s bothered to sit up properly, he can see the tick of Cas’ jaw, and the way his fingers tighten on those poor, wrinkled papers. “Halloween was not a high priority while I was growing up.”

Neither of them have spoken much about their childhoods. For Dean, it’s nothing new: as far as he’s concerned, the less spoken about those years, the better. He’s never pushed Cas’ reticence, but if he had hazarded a guess, he would have assumed that Cas’ childhood would have been all silver spoons and trips to Aspen. But Cas avoids the topic like an open sewer and Dean’s never poked at it. Until now. 

“But college,” Dean presses, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him to back off. “Everyone goes to Halloween parties in college.” Dean vaguely remembers undergrad Halloween parties, remembers attending one dressed in a corset and fishnets, and not much else. Thankfully, those pictures never survived to plague him in his professional life. He shudders at the thought of Naomi finding them. 

“Well, you were correct in your assumptions,” Cas says, his voice too carefully even to be natural. “I wasn’t that concerned with spending time at parties. I had other concerns.” 

He sounds so bitter and miserable that Dean blurts out the first bit of comfort his brain can come up with. “Sam doesn’t like Halloween either.” 

After the words are out in the open, Dean’s stomach sinks. His thoughts on the racism inherent in Victorian literature are one thing, but Sam’s trauma is very much not up for discussion. He wishes that he could take the words back, but it’s too late for that now. Besides, he and Cas were bound to have this talk sooner or later, and it might be better to get it over at the beginning, to shove aside all the empty platitudes and meaningless apologies that make Dean want to vomit as he sees the pity in the other person’s eyes. 

The silence stretches on too long. Cas pushes himself upright and leans forward, turning all of that focus onto Dean. Whatever he sees on Dean’s face keeps him from asking outright, but Dean can see the questions bouncing around in Cas’ eyes. 

Halloween is always hard. The scars always ache a little bit more, the nights always seem a little bit darker. He might not eschew it entirely like Sam, but it doesn’t mean that it’s easy for him, by any stretch of the imagination. 

“Our mom,” he begins, speaking carefully around the lump rising in his throat. This isn’t a story that he trots out often. The last time he mentioned it is hazy: he knows that it involved Benny, too much tequila, and eventually vomit. He hasn’t voluntarily given this story sober in years. 

Cas doesn’t push, and somehow, that makes it easier. “Our mom died in a house fire near Halloween. November second.” Said like that, it sounds impersonal, inevitable: everyone’s mom dies in the end, right? 

“The fire department eventually chalked it up to faulty wiring. Not that it mattered.” The laugh claws its way out of his throat, dry and bitter. “It started in Sam’s nursery. She heard something on the baby monitor and went in to look...Dad was downstairs, asleep. He woke up when he heard…” Dean’s voice wobbles. The gory details have always remained vague, cobbled together from his father’s drunken ramblings and Bobby’s careful revisionist history. 

“He heard them both screaming,” Dean says, staring at the ceiling in hopes of chasing away the burning sensation at the back of his eyes. “By then, I was awake and I went to see what the problem was…”

Even now, he’ll still wake up with smoke thick in his throat, acid heat singeing his skin. For a moment, he’ll flail in his sheets, convinced that the fire is creeping up his bed frame, thinking that if he just makes it out of bed a little bit faster this time then maybe he’ll be able to save her. Then reality will set in and he’ll fall back into his sweat-soaked sheets, shaking with horror and regret. 

“Dad gave Sam to me.” His hoarse whisper echoes through the room. On the loveseat, Cas is as tense and motionless as a deer caught in the sights of a predator. “Mom managed to get Sam out of his crib. He was only six months old. Dad gave him to me…” Dean’s voice thickens, catches. His lungs scream, with the need to breathe, to scream, to cry. “I ran,” he finally confesses. He clenches his fist so tightly that his knuckles crack under the pressure. 

Cas’ touch ghosts across his hand. Dean flinches, but Cas’ fingers remain, tracing the veins on the back of his hand until Dean’s fist relaxes. “Dean,” Cas says, his voice soft and so very gentle. Dean’s gaze flicks to Cas, just for a moment, before he stares at his lap. He can’t handle the emotion welling in those eyes, not when he’s threatening to burst at the seams. 

“Dean, you were a child. You did the best that you could. You saved your brother.” 

Cas’ voice reaches inside him, right where something wild and vicious is trying to claw its way out. The story should be old by now: he’s told it to therapists, teachers, girlfriends, boyfriends, friends...At least once a month, he relives it in his dreams. He’s seen, heard, and god, even smelled his mother dying countless times. 

So why does it always feel like he’s four years old, standing at the doorway, staggering underneath the weight of his baby brother? 

“It’s not your fault,” Cas repeats. Dean closes his eyes, forces down the instinctual, animal urge to flee. Instead, he focuses his attention onto the soft stroke of Cas’ thumb over his knuckles. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know,” Dean says automatically, his voice rough and wrecked. He blinks hard and rolls his eyes upwards towards the ceiling, until he thinks he can control the moisture threatening to spill from his eyes. “I know.” His laugh sounds like a choked rattle. He rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes, sniffing once. “Christ. This fucking blows.” 

“Dean,” Cas says. Without warning he moves to the couch, his whole side pressing against Dean. One arm wraps around Dean’s shoulders and his thumb never leaves its place on Dean’s knuckles. Dean hones in on the points of contact, his whole world narrowing to the heat of Cas’ body against his. “Shut up.” 

And it’s so brusque, so _Cas_ , that Dean can’t help but laugh. It’s a sad little burble, but it’s real, and so much more than he was expecting. Cas’ hand tightens on his shoulder, five points of comfort bleeding through Dean’s shirt. 

“You’ll have to help me with the costume. Otherwise I’ll just show up as a disgruntled high school history teacher.” 

“That’s a disguise,” Dean says. His voice still sounds thick, but he hasn’t screamed or punched anything, and he’s restraining the urge to go grab the half empty bottle of Jack, so he’s chalking this up as a win. “If you showed up as a robot then everyone would be pissed since you hadn't bothered to find a costume.” 

“Clever. Tell me, do you write all your jokes down in hopes of using them one day?” 

“Nope. It’s all improv.” 

Cas hums. The ragged edge of his nail catches against the skin of Dean’s knuckles. “Impressive talent.” His thumb traces the back of Dean’s hand one last time before he gently sets Dean’s hand back on his knee. His arm leaves next, but not before pulling Dean closer in a strange sort of hug. 

Without Cas to act as a brace, Dean slumps into the couch, a puppet whose strings have been cut. “Shut up and watch the greedy people.” He pulls at Cas’ shirt and it’s a mark of how much Cas is affected that he doesn’t put up even a token protest. Instead, he follows Dean’s silent urging and allows himself to sink back into the cushions. 

Dean falls into a doze, lulled by watching the awful people look at beautiful homes. At some point, his head drops onto Cas’ shoulder, and Dean, empty and raw, doesn’t have the strength to move. Cas never shifts except to drop his shoulder. Dean's head settles into the empty space left behind and he sighs contentedly. They watch half a show this way, and Dean could fall asleep like this, could fall asleep like this every night in fact, except for a stray thought that captures his fancy. 

“Cas,” he asks, sitting up so that he can catch the whole array of expressions crossing Cas’ face, “how do you feel about trick or treaters?”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

As it turns out, Cas is mostly perplexed by trick or treaters. 

“I’m not dense Dean, I do understand the concept,” he says, fluttering around as Dean turns his house from an HGTV special to a Halloween masterpiece. “But I’ve never understood why I should be obligated to spend money to reward children for walking across the street.” 

“Jesus Cas, were you born 80 years old?” The words come out garbled, seeing as Dean has several Command strips clenched between his lips. It’s probably a good thing, as Cas has his _I’m pissed at your willingness to bend to human conventions_ look settled onto his features. Nothing good ever happens once that look comes out to play. 

“I just don’t understand why you’re going to all this trouble to put up decorations for an event that will be over in three hours.” There’s a pause, during which Dean can hear the gears of Cas’ brain turning. “Of course, you don’t intend to help me take them down.” 

Dean, who actually _did_ intend to help Cas take the decorations down, nonetheless smiles obnoxiously wide. “It’ll build character.” 

Cas maturely rolls his eyes. “I just don’t see why it has to be my house.” 

He’s coming dangerously close to whining and Dean tells him so, ignoring the pissy set of Cas’ jaw. “Besides,” he says, stretching a spider web across Cas’ door frame, “I don’t have many kids where I live. You, on the other hand, live in suburban, nuclear family heaven. I expect that your doorbell will fall off from all the grubby hands pressing at it.” 

Cas’ distressed look is a thing of beauty, one that Dean unfortunately cannot take much time to appreciate. Instead, he steps back and surveys his work with pride. Far from looking immaculate, Cas’ house now looks like a beautiful mess. Cheap decorations all crowd against each other, orange and black clashing in a glorious mess of tackiness. Dean pulls his phone out to get a picture, making sure to get Cas against a particularly gleeful ghost. “Smile,” he orders, and is only slightly surprised when Cas flips him the middle finger, with extreme prejudice. 

Halloween fell on a Wednesday this year, which meant that, for his plans to work, Dean had to text Cas in the middle of fourth block. Texting Cas during school hours was always a bold move, but for his plans to work, Dean had to risk it. Cas’ reply was predictably terse, but he’d agreed to Dean coming over that night, so really, Dean thinks, as he goes to the Impala and pulls out his next project, he really has no one to blame but himself. 

Cas’ eyes widen when he sees Dean’s burden. “No. Absolutely not.” His words are strong, but his tone is defeatist, like he realizes he lost the fight the second that he let Dean across the threshold. 

Dean grins as he sets the pumpkins down on the counter. “Oh yes.” He snatches the butcher knife out of the block and twirls it around his fingers. “It’s carving time.” 

“Make sure that you don’t slice your fingers off,” Cas mutters, sounding as though he would love nothing more than for Dean to slice his fingers off. 

Dean’s artistic skills leave something to be desired and, truth be told, he’s never been that fond of scooping out pumpkin guts, so carving pumpkins has never been high on his list of favorite Halloween traditions  
. But it’s worth the stickiness and goop on his own hands to see Cas’ faintly horrified look as he reaches inside a pumpkin. His long fingers and thin wrists emerge coated with seeds and strings, and Dean smothers a laugh behind his own, pumpkin encrusted hand. “Why,” comes out Cas’ mouth. It’s not a question. 

“When you’re carving, try to think of the scariest thing you can,” Dean instructs. He already knows what he’s going to carve, having seen his inspiration online several days ago. 

He’s prepared for Cas’ artistic skills to be lacking. What he’s not expecting is Cas’ esoteric sense of humor. 

“Fifty-seven,” he says, squinting at Cas’ pumpkin. The numbers are as precise as possible on the uneven surface, but Dean can’t quite grasp the terror behind them. “I don’t understand. Are you afraid of your approaching middle age?”

“It’s a five and a seven,” Cas says, patiently. “They’re prime numbers, and many people find prime numbers intimidating.” He smiles beatifically at Dean. 

If Cas is waiting for him to get the joke, then he’s going to be waiting a long time. “God, you’re weird,” Dean breathes, shaking his head as he turns back to his masterpiece. “I said scary, not intimidating. And who... _grade-schoolers_ find prime numbers intimidating.” 

“Well, that is the age-range that this holiday is aimed at, is it not?” Cas asks. He has a point there, and Dean would be more than willing to admit it, but there’s something so godawful smug about Cas' voice that he doesn’t even acknowledge him. 

“See, this is more like it,” Dean says triumphantly as he stabs the final piece of pumpkin flesh. He carefully replaces the top and spins his masterpiece around for Cas to see. 

Carved out in careful block lettering are the words _‘Student Loans'_. Yeah, he’s stealing from some other, infinitely more creative person, but he’s banking on Cas and most of Cas’ neighbors to not know that. 

Cas purses his lips, in the constipated way that he does when he’s trying not to laugh. It’s quite frankly a ridiculous expression, one that gives Dean a sneak peek as to what Cas will look like when he’s 80 and his diet consists of prunes and soft foods. It’s absolutely unattractive. It kind of makes Dean want to reach across the table and wipe his fingers, still sticky with the remnants of pumpkin, across Cas’ face. 

Cas’ disgusted croak is everything that Dean dreamed of. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Cas spends five minutes cleaning himself up and twenty minutes giving Dean the silent treatment. All of Dean’s attempts at conversation are met with pointed silence, before Cas sighs and looks away, like some kind of martyred saint. It’s childish and immature and no one likes a pouter. Dean tells him all of this, before he shoves a candy bar in Cas’ face and says, “Jesus wept, I’m sorry, now eat this, you big baby.” 

Cas accepts his offering and his eyes smile at Dean. “If you keep on eating those, you’ll ruin the whole point of tonight,” he says, angling his eyes to the empty candy wrappers next to Dean. “Not to mention you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Mind your business,” Dean says, around a large mouthful of nougat. This is Halloween, the one night a year that he gets to indulge. He’ll be damned if something like common sense ruins that for him. 

Cas sighs. Dean wonders if he should tell him that he sounds like a schoolmarm when he puts on that particular flavor of sanctimonious, but decides against it. No doubt, Castiel already knows. 

The doorbell starts ringing twenty minutes later. Cas gives his door a startled look, before he moves to answer it. When called upon to move, Dean’s stomach rumbles threateningly. He presses a warning hand to his abdomen, ignoring Cas’ tiny _mm-hmm_. Dean decides then that if he pukes, he’s one hundred percent going to puke on Cas. 

The door opens, revealing a tiny toddler dressed in mountains of poofy pink tulle. A tiny tiara sits lopsided on her wispy blonde hair and she clutches a star-topped wand in one pudgy the hand. The other hand holds a small bucket, also pink, which she thrusts out towards Cas. “Trickartreet,” she says in a mangling of consonants. 

Dean holds back. For all of his ribbing about Cas observing the human race, he’s dying to watch the robot interact with the younger members of the species. Will he eat the children? Or simply dismiss them as unnecessary for his inevitable bid at world domination? 

Cas disappoints all of his hopes as he squats down to eye level with the girl. “And what are you supposed to be?” he asks, his gravel voice serious. 

The girl, obviously not expecting to be interrogated, pauses to consider her answer. “A fairy princess,” is the final decision, and she pushes her bucket towards Cas. 

Cas drops candy into the bucket, but not before asking, “So if you’re a fairy princess, you could grant wishes, right?” 

The girl nods, more interested with examining the candy. A slight jostle from her mother returns her attention to Cas. “Yeah,” she drawls, waving her wand around in a way that’s sure to knock someone’s head off, “I can do that.” The star makes a sharp descent towards Cas’ head and makes contact with his forehead. “I wish for you to be happy!” Her job done, she scampers off Cas’ porch. Her mother follows, with an apologetic look and a quickly muttered thanks. 

Dean steps forward, biting back his smile. He can’t speak for a moment, too afraid that he’ll puke out rainbows and all sorts of weird shit. He’s never denied that he likes kids, thinks they’re great, but this...That was something fragile and precious, like spun sugar. Expose it to the real world and it dissolves, leaving nothing more than the faintest hint of a memory. 

“That was....that was something else,” he finally says, when the wild heat in his chest dulls to a warm glow. 

Cas finally stands up from his crouch. “Dean, you’ll need to get the next one,” he says, turning around so that Dean can see the angry, red mark on his right eye. “She got me right in the eye, I need to put some ice on it.” 

Dean can’t even try to hold back his wild laughter as he helps Cas to the kitchen. 

 

 

After the first injury, the night passes quickly. Cas’ doorbell gets a workout as dozens of groups of children lean on it with their grubby little fingers. The best of the groups greet them with brilliant, gap-toothed smiles, holding out buckets and pillowcases towards them, with a chorus of “Trick or Treat!” The worst give them a sullen look, and a mumbled garble of words before they listlessly wave their bag in their direction. 

Regardless of their levels of enthusiasm, Dean and Cas dutifully drop candy in all their bags. They have enough for every child, Dean notes with satisfaction, though by eight, the level in the bowl has dropped dramatically, something that Dean refuses to chalk up to his participation. His stomach roils unhappily in direct contradiction. 

Most of the time the groups are too close together for Cas to hold any sort of meaningful conversation, but when a child comes alone, they’re always questioned. Cas might ask for clarification on their costume, or why they chose that particular superhero. One shy child, dressed as a dog, hides his face in his father’s leg until Cas coaxes him out with a tale of his childhood pet, a tale which Dean is almost certain is completely fabricated. It doesn’t matter to the kid, who gifts Cas with a wide smile and an enthusiastic high-five that almost misses and gives Cas his second injury of the night. 

If he had to guess, then Dean would have thought that Cas would be rubbish with kids. Cas’ unyielding personality doesn’t leave room for silliness or frivolity, two staples of children. But Cas is a natural: he gives each child his full attention, like the fate of the world rests on their conversations. It’s enough to make Dean’s teeth itch from the sweetness. It kind of makes Dean wish that he had some more pumpkin guts to smear over Cas’ face, if only to make him a little less perfect. 

At eight-thirty, Cas turns his porchlight off. He slides the deadbolt home and leans against the door. Dean watches as exhaustion stakes its claim, Cas’ shoulders slumping like he doesn’t have enough strength to hold them up anymore. Dean tosses one of the last remaining bars towards him and Cas snatches it out of the air, unwrapping it and taking an enormous bite. Cas has a bit of a sweet tooth, Dean is delighted to discover, and he plans on utilizing this knowledge in the worst way possible. Idly, he wonders if Cas likes pie, and if he does, his favorite flavor. 

“How was baby’s first Halloween?” Dean asks, from his sprawl on Cas’ couch. The cushions are nowhere near as comfortable as his couch, and he’s always worried that he’s going to shift wrong and be tumbled to the ground, but it’s been a long day. Any port in a storm. 

Cas sits on a chair opposite him and props his feet on the coffee table. “I didn’t even do anything,” he mumbles, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair. His fringe falls over his closed eyes. “How am I this tired?”

“Eat some sugar and gear up,” Dean tells him, and even though he has no intent on following through with this suggestion, it’ll still be fun to watch the moment when Cas’ soul leaves his body. “We’ve got to get all of these decorations down.” 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Friday morning dawns and, for a brief moment, Dean thinks about calling in sick. 

He doesn’t, obviously, but the temptation is still there, all throughout his morning shower and coffee, and even in the car on the way to school. His body protests the restless night before, muscles aching from tossing and turning, and his brain exhausted from chasing itself around in circles. He never quite managed to drop off into sleep and every time he came close he was awakened by the feeling of heat on his skin, the scent of smoke in his nose. At around five he gave up, and contented himself with reaching for one his well-thumbed paperbacks, letting the familiar words wash over him. 

At school, the kids seem calmer than normal, which is probably just his imagination. Charlie’s quick squeeze of his hand isn’t his imagination though, nor is the warm cup of coffee, courtesy of Ellen. From Jo, he gets a brusque pat on the back which is as good as a warm embrace from anyone else. Bobby texts him halfway through first period, with an inane question about a car in the shop, just so that Dean will be forced to answer him. By the time Benny drops by with a warm muffin, Dean’s feeling smothered but he bites back his irritation. They’re only trying to help. 

Even the bottom feeders like Crowley, Meg, and Balthazar give him a wide berth today. Dean doesn’t know how they figured out the significance of this day, but this is one of the rare times that he’ll milk his personal tragedy for all that it’s worth. If it means that Crowley backs off the copier and lets Dean have first dibs, then all the previous discomfort is worth it. 

In fact, the one person Dean doesn’t see or hear from is Cas, who remains conspicuously absent. Dean finds his surprise surprising. After the events of this week, Cas has pretty much proven Dean’s long-held robot theory incorrect, so he would have assumed that Cas would be lining up to show off his shiny new human empathy. But Cas stays away, until the last bell rings and he pops his head inside Dean’s room. 

“You’ll have to come by early this evening,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “You’ve informed me that this party requires costumes and we’ve discussed my lack thereof.” 

“Hell of a time to mention this,” Dean replies, as his brain struggles to catch up to Cas. “You know that we can’t go to a store to buy a costume. They've been out of stock for days.” 

Cas tilts his head, like a dog attempting to decipher a particularly difficult trick. “Why on earth would I spend money on something I plan to wear once? I thought that you could just look through my closet and put something together.” 

“What am I supposed to be, some kind of makeover show?” Dean runs his hand through his hair, already figuring out a timeline in his mind. “Look, I just have to get a few things squared away here, before I go home. I can be at yours at around six.” 

Cas nods gravely, like they just finished plans for an invasion, rather than a ransacking of his closet. “See you then.” With that he’s gone, leaving Dean to go through his admittedly limited knowledge of Cas’ wardrobe. 

It’s only when he’s at home, still pondering what in the hell he can dress Cas in that Dean realizes what a sneaky little bastard Cas really is. All the time after school, instead of being alone with his thoughts, he’s been turning this problem over in his head. He hasn’t had a second to think about his own little personal misery, he’s been so focused on Cas. This is Cas’ way of taking care of him: manipulative and effective. 

“Touche,” Dean mutters, throwing his costume in a duffel bag. “This round goes to you.” 

He hopes that Cas has something truly awful in his closet, just so Dean can force him into it. Revenge doesn’t always have to be served cold. 

 

\---

On the way to Cas’ house, Dean makes a call. 

He doesn't want to talk to Sam, not today at least. Sam will resent the hell out of Dean’s calling, and more importantly, they won’t say anything important. Dean will have to fabricate a reason for his call, which Sam will see through in a second, and then Sam will have to pretend that he’s pissed about something unrelated, and not the fact that Dean called to check up on him. 

So Dean calls Jess. 

She answers on the second ring, like she’s been expecting his call. For all Dean knows, she has. It’s not like she doesn’t know what this day is, or what it means. 

“Hey,” Dean says, realizing suddenly that he has no idea what he wants to say. 

“Hi Dean,” Jess replies. “How are you doing today?”

And she asks like she really wants to know. If Dean hadn’t already loved her from the very beginning, based on the way Sam melted around her, he would love her for this, the careful consideration she gives the people around her. It almost reminds him of Cas, the way that he listens to Dean when he speaks, like Dean’s opinion is something worth listening to. 

“Um, you know.” Dean laughs in a blurt of discomfort. “About as well as can be expected, I guess. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Jess answers, and because she already knows what he really cares about she says, “and Sam’s fine too. He’s quiet, you know. But he’s all right.”

Dean hadn’t realized how worried he was until he didn’t have to be. “Good.” He wipes his mouth, scratches idly at the stubble creeping over his jaw. “That’s good. Any plans for tonight?”

“Not much. Order in a pizza, catch a movie, fall asleep halfway through. Boring married people stuff. You?”

“Picking up Cas and we’re headed to Charlie’s party. We'll do a keg stand, maybe go streaking. You know, boring, single people things.” 

Jess laughs and Dean smiles in response to the sound. “Well, if you do anything interesting, just make sure that someone gets it on camera. I’m tired of only hearing about these things.”

“Yeah, I got it. Pics or it didn’t happen.” Dean turns on to Cas’ street and parks in his driveway. “Listen, don’t tell Sam that I called, all right? He’ll just get pissed if he thinks that I was checking up on him.”

“I don’t think that he would, but all right. He’ll probably call you tomorrow. He worries about you too, you know.” 

“Doesn’t have to,” Dean answers automatically, a lifetime of hearing his father’s voice saying _Take care of Sammy_ forcing the words out of him. 

“Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t,” Jess says, the rebuke gentle. 

“I’m at Cas’; I’ve got to go.” All his life, he’s tried to be the rock, the one that other people rely on. Sam shouldn’t have to worry about him; that’s Dean’s job. He’s the one who worries, who stays up at night, who hustles money so that they can eat and wash their clothes in the latest dingy laundromat. _Take care of Sammy_. 

“All right. He’ll call you tomorrow.” Jess pauses, then says in a rush, “I think it’s good that you’re spending more time with Cas. I know that Sam likes him.” 

“Well yeah,” Dean laughs, shrugging away the slight discomfort of Jess’ words. “He and Sam are like nerd soulmates.”

“Yeah, it’s not just that. Anyway, talk to you later!” Jess hangs up and Dean glares at his phone. He loves his future sister-in-law, but that doesn’t mean that he understands her. 

 

\--

 

Cas doesn’t have anything awful in his closet. 

It’s a problem. 

It’s a problem, because all Cas has in his closet are depressingly sensible clothes, like suits, khakis, slacks, and button downs. There’s no depressing throwbacks to the nineties, not even many splashes of colors. Dean could have already guessed, but Cas favors black, navy, and white, with occasional splashes of light blue thrown in for contrast. His collection of ties, hung over the back of his bedroom door, provides a little color, but a tie does not a costume make. 

_Unless all he was wearing was the tie_ , an insidious voice, which sounds a lot like Dean’s, comments. Dean shakes his head and focuses on the problem at hand, and definitely not on the appealing mental image which his traitorous brain gifts to him. 

“We might have to go with disgruntled history teacher,” Dean admits, taking a step back from the closet. From his perch on his bed, Cas sighs. 

“Well, there’s nothing else for it,” he says, something a little too resigned in his voice. Dean peers at Cas, with new suspicion. 

“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he warns. He freezes Cas in place with nothing more than the judicious application of his index finger, before he turns back to the disaster of a closet. Maybe not a disgruntled history teacher. Maybe a disgruntled office worker? If Cas had a few more skinny ties then he could maybe pull off a Ben Wyatt from Parks and Rec. But Dean has no intention of putting on a blonde wig and becoming Leslie Knope, so the whole focus of the costume would be ruined. 

Just for once, why can’t Cas be a normal person and have something horrible in his closet? 

Dean racks his brain once more, searching for the most horrible piece of clothing that Castiel owns. His mind flickers back to the trenchcoat Cas was wearing the night his car broke down. The coat itself is a monstrosity, something that flies in the face of Cas’ otherwise impeccable taste, but Dean doesn't know what kind of costume can be made out of a trenchcoat. 

_Flasher!_ The nasty little voice chimes in with another unhelpful suggestion. Dean squashes the urge to roll his eyes: he would have to explain why he was rolling his eyes to Castiel, and he’s not sure if he would make it out alive from that conversation. 

Trenchcoat. Cas owns a trenchcoat and a shit-ton of suits. A vague memory nags at the back of Dean’s mind, comics and a weird movie experience...Dean grabs a few clothes, and chooses a tie from the rack. He holds them out to Castiel, who looks dubiously at them, and then at Dean. 

Dean grins and loves the discomfort it brings to Cas’ face. “I’ve got it.” 

 

\---

 

“Stop fiddling with it!” Without taking his eyes off the road, Dean reaches out and slaps at Cas’ hand. Cas drops his hand back to his lap, but not without a rebellious sigh. 

“It’s backwards,” he says, plaintively. 

“It’s supposed to be that way. I showed you the pictures.” 

Cas hadn’t seen the resemblance, but that’s because he’s a philistine intent on ruining fun. It was plain enough for Dean, and since he watched the Keanu Reeves movie with Charlie, he knows that she’ll get it. Anyone else, well...it’s mostly Charlie’s LARPer friends, so they’ll be sure to recognize Cas. 

“I still don’t understand your costume,” Cas adds, his eyes flicking up and down Dean’s frame. “I’ve met plenty of archaeologists, and I assure you, they never dressed in that manner.”

Dean shifts underneath Cas’ look, as he pushes his hat up to scratch at his scalp. “Well, obviously, you just didn’t meet the sexy ones.” The words fall flat into the car and there’s no saving them. Dean cranks up the music louder in retaliation, until he can feel the bass thumping through the seat. 

And yeah, it might be cheesy but Dean’s not going to apologize. _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ was part of his sexual awakening, when he realized that maybe he enjoyed a sweaty, shirtless Harrison Ford more than he was supposed to. After that, was _Star Wars_ and the realization that maybe he just liked Harrison Ford. And after that was the realization that maybe he just liked the male form. 

He never had a ‘coming out’. Sam seemed to know, like Sam seems to know everything, the weird little nerd. There were a few pointed comments from him, some waggling of eyebrows, but for the most part, Sam left it alone. Ellen and Bobby seem to know everything, though they’re not nearly so emotional as Sam. 

Dean never told Dad. Which, in itself, is unsurprising, since he talks to John about twice a year. But even if he and John spoke regularly, he doubts whether the topic would ever come up in conversation. Even though he never heard a slur pass his father’s lips, he still doesn’t doubt that his sexuality would go with John like a turd in a punch bowl. 

“Dean.” From the bite in Cas’ voice, Dean can guess that he’s tried to get his attention already, to no avail. “The light’s green.” 

“Right.” Dean moves forward, but he can still feel Cas’ eyes on him. Several times, Cas inhales like he’s going to say something, but each time he stops himself, settling back into the passenger seat. 

It’s in silence, then, that they make their way to Charlie’s house, where silence seems to have been eliminated. Even from the street, Dean can hear the music from inside, and he spares a moment’s pity for the neighbors. Charlie must have some sort of unholy pact with her neighbors, seeing as Dean has been coming to these parties for years, and has yet to see the cops called for several flagrant noise violations. 

Cas steps outside the car and surveys the house with trepidation. “I think, that one day," he says as he cants his eyes towards Dean, "I will ask you for a favor. And that you will have to grant it to me. And when you ask why, I will remind you about tonight.”

“Jesus Cas, it’s a party.” Dean shoves his shoulder and smacks his hand away from his backwards tie. Dean's bullwhip is on his belt, his hat is cocked at what he thinks is a rakish angle on his head, and his shirt is attractively flared open at his collar. “It’s going to be awesome.” 

 

\---

 

For the most part, it is awesome. Charlie throws parties like she’s still in college, with her music too loud, too many bodies in her house, and decorations thrown around like confetti. All of her valuables have been locked safely away, leaving the guests free to crash into walls and shelves alike, with no fear of breaking anything. Red Solo cups are smashed all throughout the house, leaving a breadcrumb-like trail to the backyard, where party-goers take advantage of the last vestiges of warmth. 

He and Cas slide through the bodies and dodge splashes of punch and flying elbows. Several people call out to them, not with their names, but instead their costumes. “Nice one, Constantine!” Cas tugs at his tie for the hundredth time and Dean contemplates strangling him with it. He discards the idea. Too much paperwork and too many witnesses. 

They find Charlie holding court in the backyard. It’s not an exaggeration. Charlie, dressed like a medieval knight, is literally holding court. Several people in honest to god armor surround her and even look threateningly at Dean as he shoulders them aside. “Fear not, gentle knights,” Charlie says, holding her hands out for peace. “These are friends of the court.”

“Moondor?” Dean asks, tipping his hat towards her. 

“These are several members of the queen’s council, who are here tonight to protect the festivities.” Charlie indicates the knights surrounding her, like Dean might be confused about who’s LARPing. “If they give challenge, answer them truthfully and no harm shall come to you.” 

“Mhmm,” Dean says doubtfully. He purposefully strokes his bullwhip. “We’ll see about that.” 

Charlie blinks at him. “Seriously dude, don’t beat these guys up,” she mumbles. “These guys couldn’t go up against a kitten and win.” 

“Yeah well. Don’t start none, won’t be none,” Dean replies, leaning in close and placing a loud, smacking kiss against Charlie’s forehead. “See you around kiddo.” 

After that, events become a little foggy in Dean’s mind. He knows that there’s a game of Jenga that he manages to wreck, as well as karaoke, which he also wrecks. He and Cas make short work of the skimpy food available, and help themselves to the not so skimpy drinks available. Afterwards, he commandeers the music from the scrawny kid playing DJ. These events exist separately from each other, untethered to a timeline. He supposes that’s the fault of the copious amounts of punch which he consumes within thirty minutes of arriving, but how was he supposed to know that Charlie spikes her punch like a fratboy? 

His nerves are still jingly, from the previous night, from the talk with Jess, from being shoved around a lot of unfamiliar faces. He realizes, with an unpleasant jolt, that he’s managed to lose Cas. 

Oh god, he’s inflicted Cas on the unsuspecting masses. What if Cas’ programming gets tweaked and he goes Terminator on them? Or, more likely, what if Cas has himself sequestered in some dark corner, the prospect of socializing too much for him? 

When thirty seconds of searching doesn’t provide any answers as to Cas’ whereabouts, it’s time for a new approach. Dean flops onto the couch and pulls his phone out from his back pocket. _wher r you im on couch com find me_

Satisfied, he tucks his phone back into his pants. Cas will undoubtedly get that and come running. Dean leans his head against the couch and puts his hat over his face. 

The feel of the couch shifting next to him rouses Dean. He pulls his hat down and looks over, grin already on his face, expecting to see Cas. Instead, he’s greeted with a stranger. His smile fades but hers doesn’t. 

“Hi,” she says, too loud and bubbly to be completely sober. “That’s a really sweet costume, Dr. Jones.” She’s dressed in an outfit that Dean doesn’t have a hope of recognizing--short shirt and uniform top. Probably from some anime that he’s never bothered to watch. 

“Thanks. Um, yours too.” He hopes that he’s not going to be called upon to name her costume. He sits upright, only to immediately regret his decision. The world spins treacherously, and he wants, suddenly and viciously, to go home. 

“Thanks. I’m Fiona, I don’t think that I’ve seen you around before?” 

“Um yeah. I work with Charlie. At the school? There’s a lot of people here that I don’t know.” _And don’t wish to_ , he hopes his tone says, but evidently it doesn’t. Either that, or Fiona doesn’t take the hint. 

“There was someone else here who worked with Charlie,” she says. “Had a really weird name.” 

“Cas,” Dean blurts out, too loudly, judging from Fiona’s expression. “That’s Cas. I came here with him. Where is he?”

Fiona shrugs, settling herself back into the couch with the air of someone content not to move for a while. Dean, who is not content to stay put, tries to get up, only to sink back when the world tilts on its axis. What the hell was even in that punch? He hasn’t been this drunk in a while...not since the last Halloween party. Damn it, you’d think that he would have learned by now. 

“Don’t know,” she says, with a deliberate smack of her lips. “Looked like he was fine the last time I saw him.” 

“That’s not right,” Dean mumbles, because there’s no possible way that Cas would be fine, not when he was pushed into the seething masses. 

“Whatever man, believe what you want. He looked perfectly happy to me.” 

Now Dean knows that she’s full of shit, because if there’s one expression that doesn’t come naturally to Cas’ face, it’s happiness. Irritation, exasperation, confusion, yeah, but happiness? Happiness sits on Cas’ shoulders like a rented tux: it looks amazing, sure, but there’s always the sense that it doesn’t belong to him, that he’s going to have to turn it back in at the end of the night. He needs to go get Cas, right now. 

He forces his wobbly legs to hold him and he takes a halting step forward. Faintly, he remembers that he told Cas that he would be on the couch, but Cas obviously didn’t get the message, or else he would be here by now. God, what if something happened to him? 

In the back of his much more sober, rational mind, Dean knows that he’s being ridiculous. Cas is a full-grown man, not some little lost puppy and he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. If he was that unhappy, then he would either leave, or, more likely, find Dean and demand to go home. He’s not a damsel and he doesn’t need rescuing. 

None of that matters to Dean as he staggers forward. He takes care with how he steps, walking with the exaggerated care of the truly inebriated. “Um, I think that you should really stay put,” he hears Fiona tell him. She sounds like she’s shouting in a tunnel and that makes her easy to ignore. He’s got this. He’s Dean fucking Winchester and yeah, he drank a lot of punch, but he’s also put away a hell of a lot of whiskey in his day, so this doesn’t mean shit. He’s Dean Indiana Jones Winchester, and he’s going to go and get his man. 

_The hell?_

The unexpected turn of his thoughts gives Dean pause, which turns out to be his undoing. Half of his brain ponders why Cas has suddenly become ‘his man’, which only leaves half of his brain supervising the task of keeping his upright and moving. Half of his brain isn’t enough. His toe catches on the edge of a rug and gravity takes charge, ready to introduce Dean's face to the floor. 

His meeting with the ground is interrupted by the feel of steel hands on his shoulders. “Whoa,” Dean mumbles. He waits for his feet to receive the message from his brain: _get underneath him and support his body_. His feet eventually get with the program and settle underneath him, though they threaten to go back on strike at any moment. 

His eyes travel over sensible shoes, nice dark blue pants, a sensible leather belt, backwards tie, and the brightest pair of blue eyes that he’s ever had the pleasure to see. “Cas,” Dean breathes, as a smile stretches out his mouth. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Yeah,” Cas says, and damn, who would have guessed that Castiel’s wrists were apparently made of titanium? “I got your text. Dean, you need to go home.” 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, dropping his head forward to rest on Cas’ shoulder. It feels good, like his head should have always had a place here. Like maybe he should embroider his name into Cas’ skin to reserve his spot. Fuck, that’s weird. “Yeah, it’s time to go.” 

His hand fumbles for his keys, only to be seized by Cas’ fingers of death. “Absolutely not,” Cas says, in a voice which brooks no arguments. Dean has a second to shiver at the sound of that voice, because fuck, there’s always been a part of him that loves being put in his place, and then Cas’ fingers are in his pocket and Dean has a whole new list of reasons to shiver. 

Cas is a gentleman, doesn’t spend any more time than he needs to in Dean’s pocket, which, in Dean’s opinion, is really a crying shame. When he withdraws his fingers, the Impala’s keys hang from his fingers. They jingle softly as Cas shifts his grip to wrap around Dean’s shoulders. 

“Charlie,” Dean mumbles into the fabric of Cas’ coat. “We should say bye to Charlie.” 

“I’ll text her later tonight,” Cas says. His voice is clipped as they make their way towards the door, but the music is so loud that Dean thinks he might have misheard. “You need to go home.” 

“You’re a good friend Cas,” Dean says, nosing further into the crook of Cas’ neck. “You’re, you’re just...a real good friend.” From this angle he can smell a whiff of Cas’ fabric softener, as well as the hint of cologne that Cas uses. 

“Dean,” Cas says, stopping dead in his tracks. Dean stops burrowing further into Cas’ neck, curious as to why Cas’ voice sounds so strange. “You are not making this easy.” 

“Yeah?” There’s no way that Cas could possibly see the leer swimming on his face, but his voice is thick with insinuation. “Am I making it hard?” 

Cas’ fingers dig into Dean’s upper arm, hard enough that he expects to find five circular bruises there tomorrow. Dean’s nerves sing from the contact, because he never learned how to have something nice without ruining it in some way. He could never possess something without breaking it apart first, to see how it worked. 

“Let’s go home,” Cas finally says, his voice carefully even. Dean slides his eyes upwards but all he sees is the hard cut of Cas’ jaw, the shadow of stubble, the subtle shift as Cas swallows. The imperceptible movement of his throat as he breathes. Dean wants to thank Cas’ trachea for doing such a good job for the past thirty two years, maybe press his lips to it to judge for himself. Fuck, that’s _weird_. 

The cool air hits him like a slap as they exit the house. Out here, without the rest of the house pressing in around him, Dean’s chest finally loosens. His mind clears, enough that he walks to the Impala mostly under his own power. Cas’ arm remains around his shoulders, offering stability and strength and Dean could no easier move from that touch than he could stop the earth from orbiting the sun. 

Cas settles himself behind the wheel of Baby like he belongs there. Dean waits for the flash of rage that rises whenever someone else other than him sits in the driver’s seat, and it’s there, but muted. Maybe that’s because the whole world seems muted, soft around the edges, like a watercolor painting. The colors all bleed together, the streetlights, and traffic lights, and the only sharp thing in the world is Cas. 

The window’s cracked open and Dean breathes in the cool night air. His hair flutters in the breeze and the cool glass is a balm against his overheated forehead. Like this, he can close his eyes and pretend like he’s flying. It’s almost like he’s a child again, dozing in the backseat as the Impala eats up the miles, except instead of his father in the driver’s seat, incomprehensible and unknowable, it’s just Cas. Cas, Dean suspects, would take a lifetime to properly unravel, but the difference lies in the fact that Cas _wants_ to be known. 

Dean’s left hand gropes across the seat until he catches the tails of Cas’ coat. He pulls until the shadows in the Impala shift and Cas glances at him. “I’m sorry,” Dean says, putting effort into not slurring his words. He leans away from the glass and though he misses the cool temperature, this is almost as good, watching the way that the shadows and light play over the angles of Cas’ face. The way that Cas’ fingers play over the steering wheel of the Impala, how the tendons in his wrists tighten and relax as he makes a turn. 

“For what?” Cas asks, gentler now that it’s just the two of them, enclosed in the safety of the Impala. 

Dean twists his fingers in the tan fabric. “Was a dick, before.” He meets Cas’ eyes, willing him to understand. “Never gave you a chance.” 

A sad, sweet smile flits across Cas’ face. “It’s fine,” Cas says, and Dean bristles, because it’s not fine. “It’s fine,” Cas repeats, his gaze directed to the deserted roads. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Dean almost scoffs, because has Cas ever met him? Worrying is pretty much in his job description, but there’s something quietly desperate in Cas’ voice that begs Dean to let it lie. Dean isn’t much for subtleties, but he can recognize this, so he stops, and listens to the tires churning against wet pavement. 

Cas maneuvers the Impala neatly into a parking space, which is something to be impressed by, when you consider that, at the end of the day, she’s a boat. Dean fumbles for the door handle but somehow, can’t figure out the witchery involved in opening the door. He squawks when Cas opens the door from the outside, and only quick reflexes on Castiel’s part save him from crashing to the ground. 

“Come on,” Cas says, slotting his shoulder underneath Dean’s arm, and Dean never lets himself rely on anyone, but if it feels like this, then he might have to start. Cas is solid against him, sturdy enough to hold a foundation, steady enough to withstand a siege. 

“Did I tell you you’re a good friend?” Dean asks, as Cas unlocks his door. He never leaves Dean's side, not when they stumble through the front door, not when they start up the stairs, ungainly and awkward. Dean slaps at a lightswitch as they reach the top. Dim yellow illuminates the rest of their way, their shadows arching wildly across the walls. 

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” Cas replies. He steers Dean into his bedroom and carefully places him on the edge of his bed. The memory foam mattress happily sinks underneath his weight, welcoming his ass back to where it should be, but Dean’s attention is more focused on Cas as he...Oh Christ, Dean might not be plastered, but he’s not sober enough for this, Cas dropping to his knees at his feet. 

Dean’s fingers clench in the bedspread as he looks down at the top of Cas’ head. He can't see Cas' face, just a glimpse of a sharp nose and the solid line of his forehead. One of Dean’s boots hits the floor and he wriggles his socked toes. Christ. What did he ever do to deserve this? 

Now that he knows what to watch for, he sees Cas’ deft fingers working over his laces. The pressure around his ankle and foot loosens and releases as Cas steadily pulls his boot off his foot. Without warning, Dean is warm, to the point of melting. He’s horrifically afraid that he might cry, because no one’s ever...Not in twenty-four years, not since Mom, has anyone cared enough to make sure his shoes are off before he falls into bed. 

Dean's hand shakes, maybe from the booze, probably from the hot welling of emotion threatening to claw its way out of him. He reaches out, Icarus drawn to the sun, even through the warning of hot wax melting down his shoulders. His body is too small to hold all of it in, he’s bursting at the seams. The world is still fuzzy at the edges, everything spinning and nothing makes sense, except for this, his hand cupping Cas’ face, the blazing heat of Cas’ skin against his.

Cas’ stubble prickles against his palm, and his humid breath puffs against the soft skin of Dean’s wrist. Dean’s thumb strokes over Cas’ cheekbone. The skin feels impossibly delicate, and Dean holds his breath, afraid that the slightest breath will shatter this moment. Cas exhales, ragged and deafening, in the sepulchral silence of the room, and his eyes flick up to meet Dean’s. Even in the dim light, they glow electric. Dean thinks that he might fall inside them, wonders at the worlds hiding behind them. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” The words, reverent, breathless, and entirely too honest, tumble out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop himself, before he remembers Cas saying _I don’t do relationships_. 

Dean doesn’t know how to have beautiful things, doesn’t know how to hold something fragile without shattering it with his love. 

Cas doesn’t move, not even to blink, and if he could, Dean would take the words back. He can't. They hang there, like a blade poised above both their necks, a glove thrown down in challenge. They can take it up or ignore it, but they can never make it disappear. 

The world doesn’t end, and Cas doesn’t move, the heat of his cheek bleeding into Dean’s hand. His thumb brushes against the fragile skin just underneath Cas’ eye. Cas finally blinks, his eyelashes brushing against the tip of Dean’s thumb. “Cas, you’re…” Dean starts and trails off, because what would he say? 

_Your eyes are so fucking blue that I can’t believe that they’re not contacts. Your hair looks like someone spent all night running their hands through it. I’d like to spend all night running my hands through your hair. Your thighs look like they could crush me. Your ass is a thing of beauty. Your fucking mouth...The way that you smile, sometimes, when you think that no one’s looking. The way that you listen_. 

Cas moves. Dean’s hand falls to his side, limp, empty, and cold. He shivers, bereft of any warmth. “Go to sleep Dean,” Cas murmurs, pushing gently on his shoulder. Dean falls back onto his mattress, groaning as the world swirls around him. “It’ll be alright. Just go to sleep.” 

Somehow, Dean manages to yank the comforter up around his body. His eyes flutter shut, exhaustion, booze, and stress finally taking their toll. The mattress cradles him, and Dean sinks down, unable to resist its siren call. 

“‘m sorry Cas,” he mumbles, turning his face into the pillow. He knows that tomorrow shame will roar through him, but for now, all he can remember is the look on Cas’ face when Dean said _gorgeous_. It was like he’d been handed a gift, but Cas wasn’t sure what to do with it now that he had it. Like Cas was afraid. 

“It’s fine Dean.” Cas’ voice is still close and Dean blindly reaches out. His fingers brush the now-familiar fabric of Cas’ coat and grip it tight. Like this, he could almost believe that he could keep Cas from leaving. 

“Don’t...Cas, I’m sorry.” Sleep encroaches, but Dean doesn’t want to fall asleep yet, not when Cas is still so close to him. 

“You’re fine Dean. Go to sleep.” 

Dean slips into the hazy place between wakefulness and slumber, and he’s too far gone to say anything else, or even react, when a warm hand rests on his forehead and gentle fingers stroke through his hair. He thinks he might even feel the impression of lips against his forehead, the brush of contact there and then gone, before Dean has a chance to react. Like maybe it was just a dream. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean wakes the next morning with a headache and a pit of regret sitting in his stomach. 

Fuck. How could he have been so stupid? 

He lies in bed, fully intent on indulging himself in some good old-fashioned misery, before he rolls over and looks at his bedside table. He squints at the glass of water and note placed beside it. He reaches out, fumbling the water as he tries to force his sluggish limbs to obey. 

His gummy eyes take forever to bring the neat handwriting into focus. 

_Take these when you wake up. Would have tried to make you something but didn’t want to poison you._

_-Castiel_

_PS--Your hat is at Charlie’s. Apparently, as a history teacher, I am obligated to know about the adventures of Dr. Jones. Please advise._

The soft huff of laughter threatens to split Dean’s head in two, but it’s worth it. Maybe he didn’t wreck everything last night. Maybe he can blame the booze. Maybe he and Cas can laugh about this. Maybe Dean can pretend like he’s never thought about Cas’ eyes or Cas’ hands. Maybe he can pretend like Cas isn’t damn near the best looking thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

His phone buzzes next to him. Dean groans, and brings it up to his face. When he sees who is on the other end, he has to answer.

“Sammy! Listen, you’re not going to believe this, but Cas has never seen any of the Indiana Jones movies.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. we are the fortunate ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward time and a Thanksgiving dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to end this chapter at a place that I'm not wild about, but it was just getting too freaking long. Apologies for the long wait. I wish that I could say that it won't happen again, but that would make me a LIAR.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Dean spends the rest of his weekend in alternating paroxysms of dread and anticipation. After he talks to Sam (a long and awkward conversation in which neither of them says _Are you ok_ while desperately wanting to assure themselves that they’re ok), he sends a swift text to Cas. 

_not dead just hungover. thanks for the meds_

Afterwards, his phone sits silent for several hours, which is not unusual. Cas is a sporadic texter, as likely to answer a message twenty seconds after receiving it as he is to answer a day later. It’s worse on the weekends because Cas usually throws himself into his projects over the weekends. Dean’s pleased to discover that his suspicions are correct: Cas is a runner and often spends temperate weekends sprinting through Lawrence’s parks and trails. If he’s not there, then he’s at home, nose tucked into one of his plethora of books. 

So Dean forces himself to ignore the silence of his phone. He pushes past the insistent headache of his hangover and takes a long, hot shower, sluicing away the previous night. When his skin is pink and shiny, he wraps himself up in a robe and wanders downstairs. Normally he tries his hand at omelettes on Saturday mornings, but between the hangover and the gnawing pit of anxiety in his stomach, Dean craves the solid comfort of carbohydrates and fried meat. Pancakes and bacon it is. 

After the grease, pancakes, and coffee settle in his stomach, Dean settles onto his couch. He has lesson plans to complete, but that’s a Sunday task. Today, he’ll allow himself to indulge in laziness. He picks something at random on Netflix and plucks _Cat’s Cradle_ off of his bookshelf. The edges of the paperback are worn thin and rounded with use. Dean doesn’t mind. During his senior year at university, he fell asleep reading this book almost every night, an adult’s version of a security blanket. He never quite gave up the habit. In times of distress or trouble, he finds his fingers seeking the soothing blue cover, his eyes skimming over the beloved words. 

It’s already mid-afternoon by the time that Dean emerges from his book-induced stupor. He stretches and walks into the kitchen, finding some old Chinese food to munch on for lunch. It tastes a little strange, but not enough to stop him from eating it. After he goes back upstairs and sorts out his laundry, he finally allows himself to look at his phone. 

One new message from Cas Milton. 

If Dean had any shame, then he would feel it then at how quickly he punches his passcode into his phone. But shame was one of those things that he lost at around age fifteen, so he doesn’t even pause. 

_Good to hear. Please drink plenty of electrolytes throughout the day_. 

Dean blinks at his phone, reading and rereading the message. The perfect punctuation and capitalization he expects, but the tone sounds more like his General Practitioner texting him about better health practices than Cas texting him. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean fires off a swift reply. 

_you betcha promise not to die of dehydration_

After that, he puts away his phone and resolves to Not Think About It. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The rest of the weekend passes quickly, with plans and chores taking up the majority of Dean’s Sunday. While he finds vacuuming and laundry so mundane as to be stifling at times, he also relishes the fact that he has a permanent home to keep clean. He’d done his best to tidy up and keep everything clean when he and Sam were moving from hotel to hotel, but there was always a sense of futility in the gesture, when Dean knew that they would be moving on within a week. So, even as he rolls his eyes at separating out his darks and lights, there’s still a piece of Dean that delights in the mind-numbing task. 

He doesn’t text Cas for the rest of the weekend, except for short little innocuous things. He replies to Cas’ reminder that they have a competition on Monday, asks if the bus is stopping anywhere on the way back so that the kids can get something to eat. Cas asks him if he got his email with assessment ideas for the project, Dean replies back in the affirmative. 

Neither of them mentions Friday night, or how Cas’ skin felt against his hand. How Cas’ mouth fell open, just the smallest bit, when those damnable words fell like grenades from Dean’s mouth. How Dean didn’t remember pulling the comforter snugly around his body, but how he still woke up covered and warm. About how Dean regrets what he said, but not for the right reasons. 

He doesn’t want to lose Cas’ friendship, the easy companionship between them. For that, he’ll apologize. 

But he wasn’t wrong. 

Dean’s man enough to admit it. He has a full-fledged crush on Castiel Milton. 

Looking back, he’s amazed at the amount of misdirection and sheer willpower which he must have indulged in to convince himself otherwise in the first place. It must have required some Olympic-level gymnastics on the part of his brain, and Dean would be impressed, if the outcome weren’t so depressing. 

From Cas’ words and behavior, he’s made it obvious that he doesn’t feel the same way about Dean. And while Dean’s never been averse to a challenge, he’ll be damned if that’s what he makes Cas. Cas made his wishes perfectly clear and if Dean were to ignore that, then he would be an utter ass. Not to mention, he’d end up losing Cas in every way possible, which hurts more than the possibility of Cas not returning his feelings. 

It’s not the worst thing to have ever happened to Dean, not by a long shot. He’s not a melodramatic sap or, god forbid, a teenager, to spend the weekend sighing and moaning over his lot in life. He’s a goddamn adult, and he’ll keep on the same way that he always had. 

Just maybe with a few more uncomfortable moments. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

The first moment that Dean sees Cas, it’s obvious that they are Not Going to Talk About It. 

Dean doesn’t really mind--Not Talking About It is a coping mechanism practically patented by the Winchesters, and one which he employs on a regular basis. Not Talking About It is always easier in the short run. The philosophy of Ignoring Your Problems has provided him with many fun-filled hours throughout the years. It’s not like Talking About What Happened or Communicating Our Separate Wants and Desires would actually get Dean what he wants, so it’s no burden to adhere to the policy of Not Talking About It. 

But he hates the strange tension between the two of them, simply because it’s so unknown to him. It’s not the crackling snap of temper and pique, nor is it the easy familiarity that they’ve fallen into through the past weeks. Instead, it’s an uncomfortable push and pull, a hyper-awareness of where the other is, and bouncing out of their orbit before ever coming close. It reminds Dean of the last weeks with Lisa, when they both knew that their relationship was over, but neither one of them could bear to strike the death-blow. 

It sets Dean’s teeth on edge and the mood seeps into the team as they wait for the bus to take them to the next competition. Cas tries to affect indifference, but a muscle in his jaw ticks like a metronome, and the corners of his eyes are tight with tension. 

Dean wants to say something to break the atmosphere, but for once, his sparkling wit leaves him high and dry. Not to mention, he can feel the team’s eyes charting his every move, following him as he moves around the room, only to snap back to their phones when he turns around. Claire frowns at him, but even she remains quiet. 

The bus arrives and the team claims their respective seats, as far to the back as they can get while still remaining on the bus. This leaves Dean and Cas at the front, which suits him fine. They take the front seat on opposite sides, neither of them speaking as the bus lurches forward. 

They’ve faced all three teams before, so there’s no need to talk about strategy. He and Cas already worked out the lineups last week, so even that small point of communication has been taken from them. Instead of talking, Dean jounces on the seat and scowls at his phone. At this point, any conversation would sound awkward and forced. But this silence isn’t much better, when he thinks back on the fact that last week, he and Cas were leaning across the aisle, his head almost on Cas’ shoulder as he watched a video on the other’s phone. 

A shoe nudges at his kneecap. Before he realizes the implications, Dean grumbles and kicks at the offending foot. His head jerks up as his brain finally puts two and two together and comes up with four. He looks across the aisle, to find Cas staring at him. His large eyes look sad, even though there’s a half-smile on his face. 

“I don’t like this,” he says. The bus’ roar almost eclipses his voice. 

“Me either.” 

Throwing caution to the wind, Dean slides out of his seat and into Cas’. He bullies Cas over to the window, shattering any lingering awkwardness with brattiness. His gamble works: all the tension somehow disappears in the blink of an eye, as his knee pushes into Cas’ thigh. Cas grunts, swatting unhappily at him. 

“Do you put razors on your joints?” he asks, shoving at the elbow in his side. Prior experience says they both can fit into a bus seat, albeit uncomfortably, but, caught in the thrill of it, Dean makes himself as obnoxious as possible, which means inconveniencing Cas in any way possible. 

Each time any part of his body grazes Cas’, little electric sparks jolt through his body, until he’s almost humming with the feel of it. Cas’ small smile, the low rumble of his laugh...Dean’s chest twists with a delicious curl of pleasure-pain until he’s light-headed. For a wild, dizzying moment, he wonders what would really happen if he just leaned forward, pressed his lips to Cas’ cheek, right where his smile creases into a dimple. 

Then he blinks and the world crashes back into normalcy. Dean should know better by now. Cas is the unattainable, the gold standard by which all others are judged. He doesn’t get to have the top-shelf. And that’s fine, that really is. He’ll settle for this, the comfortable knock of Cas’ knee against his, the rasp of Cas’ chuckle as Dean shoves his phone underneath his nose. 

It’s enough to get by on. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The competition goes swimmingly. Afterward, the dinner is raucous, the team’s spirits high. They’re comparing notes: Lawrence High is first in the district, and second in the region. Dean hears whispers of ‘ _State_ ’ passed around the table, and feels a glow of pride in his chest. No matter that he was forced into this position, he’s come to care for this team, more than he thought was possible. 

It doesn’t hurt that Cas, across the table from him, is quietly triumphant. There’s something smug in the tilt of his head, the way that his lips curl every time the muffled whisper of _State_ winds its way around the table. Amazing to think that he’d once hated the cockiness of the man, and thought it arrogance. Dean’s lived long enough to recognize the difference between confidence and arrogance and Castiel...It’s only vanity if you’re not capable of performing your boasts. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Cas asks. 

Dean laughs and takes a bite of his burger to cover up his sudden nerves. “I’m not that cheap,” he answers, around his mouthful. “You’d need a whole dollar for those.” 

“A price worth paying,” Cas murmurs, before turning his attention to his fries. Dean watches him pick one up, dip it in ketchup, and take a bite. His tongue appears, swiftly darting out to delicately lap a bit of salt off his thumb. Dean’s mouth goes dry. 

This is an untenable situation. 

He manages to put it from his mind for the rest of the night, enough so that he can make it home without embarrassing himself. He forces himself to go through the appearance of routine once he’s home: washes the dishes, tidies up the couch, packs his lunch for the next day. 

He lasts until he steps into his shower. Normally this is his quiet time, his time to unwind from the stress of the day and lose himself in the really excellent water pressure and heat. His phone, resting on the top of the toilet, pipes in tinny music that bounces off the walls and settles along his skin. Instead of relaxing him, it makes him jittery, his heart trying to pulse in beat to the percussion and not quite managing the frenetic rhythm. 

Here, alone, he lets his mind wander, and predictably, it takes him back to the moment when he was poised on the knife’s edge. Cas’ face was so close to his, close enough that he could have brushed his lips against his cheek and blown it off as an accident. Except Dean doesn’t want it to be an accident, something lopsided and easily swept under the rug. He wants it to be devastating, wants to sweep through Cas’ life with gale-force winds and leave everything in a shambles. He wants to leave his fingerprints all over Cas, to ruin him, as assuredly as Cas has ruined him, wants to stand in his wreckage, and kiss his fingertips before piecing him back together. 

His fingers wrap around his half-hard dick, massaging the base and working up to the tip. The water makes everything slick, but not quite slick enough. The friction burns, just on the right side of _too much_ , and it leaves his nerves screaming for _more_. Dean’s toes curl into the tile of the tub as he replays Cas’ laugh, the flutter of his eyelashes on his cheek, the flicker of his tongue on his plush bottom lip. 

How would Cas kiss? 

Harsh and demanding, fingers twisting in his hair? Sweet and gentle, each touch a soft reassurance? With the intensity of a surgeon and the artistry of a sculptor? Dean’s free hand winds its way up his chest, to his throat, then to his hair, before he tugs at the short, wet strands. Cas’ hands would hold him steady, trace his long fingers over every dip and curve of his face. Dean’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he imagines the pressure of Cas’ thumb there, maybe even pushing in past his lips and teeth, pressing down on his tongue. 

Dean’s breaths stutter, harsh and quick, as his hand quickens its pace on his fully hard cock. The shower wall is cool against his heated flesh as he leans against it for support, wobbly knees too weak to support him. 

Those hands...Dean traces down his chest, closing his eyes as his imagination cranks into overdrive. He brushes against a nipple, almost by accident, and gasps as the sensation rockets through him. His hand moves faster as he conjures up more images: Cas on his knees, Cas running his hands from Dean’s knees, to his thighs, and up to his hips. Dean wants Cas’ hands everywhere on him, wants Cas to map each of his freckles, like Galileo charting out the constellations. 

And he wants to learn Cas as well, wants to feel the taste of him explode on his tongue, wants to learn the sound of his pleasure. Wants to trace the line knobs of his spine with his fingers and tongue and search out the soft, hidden spaces of him. 

Wants to drop to his knees and trace the line of his hips. Wants to bury his face in Cas’ skin, feel the muscles jump and twitch underneath his lips. He wants Cas to fill him up until he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t feel anything else other than Cas, Cas…

“ _Fuck, Cas_ ,” Dean groans, twisting his hand one last time. He comes on the last hitch of Cas’ name, the sibilant ‘s’ hissing through his clenched teeth. He shakes as he works himself through the aftershocks, imagining tracing the line of Cas’ jaw with his lips, working his way up to his lips. Kissing him long and slow, kissing him until his mouth goes slack and pleased, kissing him until they fall asleep.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, once his touch becomes more torture than tease. The water, lukewarm now, threatens to turn cold, and he finishes up quickly, wiping the cloth over himself once more before stepping out of the shower. He towels himself off, shivering in the cool air, before stumbling into his bed. 

This is an untenable situation. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

His mood doesn’t improve with the morning. In fact, he wakes up with a grudge against the world, and he carries that attitude throughout the rest of the day. He sets his classes to independent reading, well aware that the less he interacts with humans, the better. His temper is a powderkeg, eagerly waiting a spark. Dean wants to avoid the explosion for as long as possible. 

The day plods along, and Dean avoids any confrontations, even going as far as to take lunch alone in his room instead of seeking out Charlie or Benny. Everything goes well until he ventures into the copy room during his planning period. He doesn’t expect to run into anyone as he runs off copies for the next day, but, like a nightmare, a sultry, sugary sweet voice interrupts him just as he’s getting ready to curse at the machine for jamming once more. 

“Not having a good time, Dean-o?” 

The hair at Dean’s nape stands on end at the voice. Masters always sounds like she’s ready to slide a knife into his kidneys, and Dean knows that for all his foreboding, he’d never see it coming. In a past life, no doubt she made her living as an assassin. 

“Astute observation,” he bites out. Partly from his desire to get along with his co-workers, and partly from his vague belief that she is not only capable but also willing, to murder him, Dean keeps his voice pleasant and non-threatening. “Interested in helping?”

“Mmm, no. Perseverance always pays off in the long run.” 

“You get that from a fortune cookie?” Dean grunts as he examines the guts of the copier. He tugs the jam out, hissing in pain as his knuckles brush the overheated metal. 

Meg doesn’t bother to answer him, and that’s what Dean finds the most off-setting about her. No one is that unnaturally calm. Even Castiel, when you scratch the surface, burns hot. But Meg is as impenetrable as a glacier, and just about as cuddly. While Dean can’t deny that she’s brilliant in her subject, she’s also about as suited for high school teaching as _Basic Instinct_ Sharon Stone. 

“Rumor has it that the team might make it all the way to the state final this year,” she finally says. 

Though John Winchester’s idea of fatherhood was making sure that Dean learned how to cook on a camp stove in the latest fleabag of the week, he did manage to instill a finely tuned ability to sense danger from a mile away. That ability kicks into high gear whenever Meg is around and, now that she’s revealed at least part of her agenda, the hair on his arms rises with the acknowledgement of Danger Dean Winchester, Danger Danger!

“Must be a slow news day, if that’s the hot rumor of the day.” 

Meg grins. Thrust and parry, it’s all a game, except that it’s not. “You and Castiel have done well,” she says, insinuation laying heavy on her words. 

The conversation has turned into a tar pit, and Dean remembers reading vivid picture books about fossils, when they talked about the poor dinosaurs who got caught in the tar pits. The illustrators always put human expressions of agony on the faces of the trapped animals. Dean knows exactly how they felt, mired in something that they couldn't escape. 

“The team’s done well,” he bites out. _And no matter how hard they struggled, the trapped animals could not free themselves. In fact, in trying, they only tired themselves and made their fate inevitable_. 

“And the two bestest buddies haven’t helped one little bit? Figured you for a lot of things Winchester, but humble was never among them.”

Dean remembers the photo, how could he not, of Meg and Cas, obviously a couple, on a beach. He doesn’t think that there’s anything there between them now (surely he would have seen, surely Cas would have told him) but he can’t deny that Cas relaxes around Meg in a way that he doesn’t around Dean. 

Dean’s never been a jealous guy, never really had the occasion to be, but he’s finding that he doesn’t much care for the emotion. Not that he has any reason to be jealous--Cas is just a guy, just his friend. Dean doesn’t have any claim on him. If Benny or Charlie got a girlfriend, he’d be over the moon for them. If Cas and Meg want to bump uglies every day that ends in ‘y’, it’s no business of his. 

If Cas and Meg are anything else other than exes who are weirdly close, then Dean might actually carve out his own eyes. 

“I’m a complicated guy,” he says, turning to watch her. 

There’s something of a feline in Meg, present in her graceful, slinky movements and the innate self-assuredness of her every action and word. She reminds him of one of a cat he once saw in an alley. It was hunting, but the cat treated it more like play: one paw would come down over the hapless mouse’s body, claws sinking in as the mouse squeaked in agony. After a few moments of this, the cat would release the mouse and the game would start all over again. Sam had cried and demanded that Dean do something, and Dean had chased the cat away, too late. The mouse had gasped out its last breaths, going stiff and still as Dean watched. 

Between the allergies and that incident, Dean kind of hates cats. 

“I don’t think that you are,” Meg purrs, a warning in her movements and her words. “I think that you’re devastatingly simple.” 

Dean automatically bristles at the insult but doesn’t move as Meg takes one, slow circle around him. She looks for a moment like she wants to say something, but then changes her mind. Instead, she taps her chin with one impeccably manicured fingernail. “Be seeing you around, Dean-o,” she drawls, eyes glinting with dark pleasure. 

She waltzes out of the copy room and in a fit of pique, Dean aims a kick at the corner of the soda machine. The machine rattles ominously on its base and Dean swears at the bolt of pain rattling through his foot. 

Fucking Meg. Fucking, fucking Meg Masters, who likes to toy with people for no other reason than the sheer enjoyment of it. What had Cas ever seen in her? Sure, she’s smart, and coldly analytical, and maybe that would appeal to Cas, but there’s no warmth in her, nothing of the sweet, gentle core, which Cas has shown on multiple occasions. Meg isn’t sweet. She’s the kind of person that chews up sweet and spits it out, before scrubbing the lingering taste from her mouth. 

Dean wants, with a miserable, urgent need, to see Cas. He’s on his way to his classroom before he has to force himself to turn around. Cas has Government last period, and would be livid if Dean were to interrupt his class. More importantly, he’s not a girl that goes running to her boyfriend the instant that someone upsets her. 

So he calls Sam and spends the rest of his planning period bitching to him. Sam listens, even punctuating the pauses with distracted “uh-huhs” and “yeahs”, which lets Dean know that his baby brother is multitasking on some project or another. If he weren’t so irritated at Meg, then he might be angry at Sam’s lack of sympathy, but fortunately for his baby brother, he can only handle one injustice at a time. 

Dean’s tirade comes to an end and Sam speaks, sounding for the first time like he’s giving Dean his full attention. “By the way, Jess and Ellen want to go over the Thanksgiving menu with you and make sure that the shopping all gets done. We don’t want another disaster.”

The Great Thanksgiving Disaster of ‘16 occurred when communication lines broke down between Ellen, Dean, and Jess. Each of them thought that the other had bought fresh broccoli for the broccoli onion casserole, ending up with none of them buying fresh broccoli. Upon discovering this fact on Thanksgiving Day, Dean ventured into the deepest recesses of Bobby’s freezer, ultimately coming up with a frozen package of brussel sprouts. His theory was that one green thing could be substituted for another green thing: in the end, they were all kind of gross, so it didn’t really matter. 

Spoiler alert: it mattered. 

Ever since then, he, Ellen, and Jess have always gotten together and coordinated the menu, as well as the shopping list, with the same attention to detail given the invasion of Normandy. Thanksgiving isn’t just a day, it’s the high holy day of cooking and baking, the one day out of the year where gluttony isn’t merely tolerated, but celebrated. 

And yeah, Dean’s actually pretty grateful for his whole damn life, so there’s that too. 

“We’ll organize over the weekend,” Dean assures Sam, who, his task completed, is back to distracted platitudes. 

“Hey Sam?” Dean says before hanging up, and there must be something in his voice, because all background noise ceases and Dean senses that he has his brother’s full attention. “Thanks, you know. For listening.” It’s a weird moment, one that comes dangerously close to breaking the Winchester motto of ‘Conceal, don’t feel’. Trademark your heart out, Elsa. “Bitch,” Dean adds, in case anyone accuses him of being transplanted into a chick flick. 

Sam huffs out a laugh, comfortable now that the world’s righted itself. “Whatever jerk. See you on the weekend.” 

Dean hangs up the phone, feeling not necessarily happy, but certainly more settled. Fuck Meg Masters and her weird little mind games. Not for the first time, Dean thinks darkly of anyone who would ever study psychology. 

If there were anything between her and Cas, then he would definitely know.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

One week later, Dean is supposed to be working on finalizing the project proposal, but is instead finalizing his grocery list. He has the paper tucked into his copy of ‘1984’ and the plan would be fool-proof, except Castiel always thinks the worst of him, as evidenced by his slim fingers plucking the book out of Dean’s grasp. 

“Hey, I was working,” Dean protests, willing to go down with the ship of lies. Cas sighs and snaps the book shut before tossing it back at Dean, with more force than is absolutely necessary. 

“We have a week and a half to finish this proposal. It would be nice if you were working on this as well.” Cas’ exasperation and frustration are to be expected, but he finds himself unprepared for the disappointment. It hits him like a sledgehammer, especially when he remembers his disdain for Uriel and Crowley, who would be willing to let Castiel do all the work so that they could reap the reward. 

“I really have been working, look,” Dean says, by way of apologizing, and slides his laptop over to Cas. The proposal sits, perfectly formatted, in his documents, complete with lesson plans, assessments, as well as presentation ideas. Cas reads through the document, occasionally checking Dean’s notes against his own, pecking at his keyboard to add additional notes.

After a few minutes of silence, Cas has deflated enough that Dean can try to defend himself. “It’s just that Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks.” 

Cas looks up from the laptop, his eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Thanksgiving,” Dean repeats, clearly enunciating each syllable, just in case Castiel’s internal processor is malfunctioning. “National holiday? The reason that we’re out of school for five straight days? Pilgrims?”

Cas shrugs, returning his attention to the laptop, and really, that’s too much. Dean can accept Cas snatching his grocery list, but he can’t accept the fact that Castiel treats the word ‘Thanksgiving’ like a slang word long since deleted from the lexicon. He pushes his laptop shut, only narrowing missing crushing the tips of Cas’ fingers. 

“Thanksgiving, man!” There might be a slight maniac tinge to his words, but come on. Everyone celebrates Thanksgiving. 

“You seem to be under the impression that repeating that word will eventually elicit an emotional response.” 

“Turkey,” Dean tries, then thinks about the relative taste of turkey. Not the best selling point of the holiday. “Green bean casserole? Sweet potatoes with marshmallows? Mashed potatoes and gravy? Cranberry sauce? Deviled eggs? Sweet rolls? _Pie_?” None of the foods manage to change Castiel’s dubious expression, not even the mention of the holiest of holies. 

“Pie, Cas, come on. I know that too much food gums up the mainframe, but you have to have had pie at least once in your life.” 

“Of course. I just don’t understand its importance in what is essentially, a useless holiday.” 

Dean gapes. He’d been aware that Cas was a robot, but really, even robots could be programmed to respond to basic human emotions. 

“Thanksgiving is a monument to American greed and sloth, not to mention its history of genocide against the Native population. Its main attraction has become a commercialized, over-televised spectacle, more devoted to selling shows and products, than celebrating any sense of gratitude.” 

“Good god,” Dean groans, burying his face in his hands. “Just when I start to think that there’s hope for you. How can you like Halloween, the point of which is to get free candy, by the way, and hate Thanksgiving?”

“Halloween comes from a long pagan tradition, co-opted by Christians to assimilate their religion. Also, in its current iteration, Halloween is geared towards children, who are encouraged to emulate their favorite heroes for a night. Children are expected to adhere to a series of set norms in order to receive a reward. Creativity is also celebrated during this holiday, which can only foster appreciation for the arts and unconventional thinkers.” 

“That is…” Dean pauses while Cas preens, ever so slightly, secure in his intelligence. “The most soulless way of describing a holiday that I’ve ever heard,” he finishes, pleased to see the scowl settle on Cas’ face. “Seriously though, why all the hate against Thanksgiving?”

He only recognizes the minefield after he’s asked the question. Thanksgiving is, at its heart, a holiday about family, and Dean’s thoughts about family are crystal clear. He’s never hidden his family, quite the opposite. He flaunts them, walking down the hall with his arm around Ellen’s shoulder, dropping affectionate kisses to Jo’s forehead without warning, displaying Sam and Jess’ pictures on his desk with obsessive pride. 

Cas mentions his family with the same reticence usually given to an embarrassing illness. He makes references to his cousin Gabriel, usually with a delicate wince that says more than his words. Michael the Mayor rarely receives a mention, and Dean only knows that Cas has two other cousins, Lucas and Raphael, from a newspaper picture, which mentions that they are not pictured. 

“It’s not hate, just indifference.” Cas opens the laptop again, and when he speaks, his eyes are carefully looking at the screen instead of at Dean. “As far as the media is concerned, Thanksgiving is an opportunity for Michael. He’ll spend his evening at the shelters, but not before informing every news station within thirty miles. The rest of the family isn’t encouraged to attend; we might get in the way of his interview.” Cas’ voice is low and Dean blinks in surprise at the bitterness coating his words and expression. “We have brunch in the morning, of course, because the news also loves watching him sit down for a meal with his family. A pro-family mayor who’s willing to eschew his personal time for community service? One of the reporters almost proposed to him one year. If it hadn’t been for Hester, then I think she would have.” Cas finally looks up. He catches the question in Dean’s eyes and deliberately or not, misinterprets its source. “Hester is Michael’s wife.” 

“So don’t go,” Dean suggests stupidly. He can’t think of anything else to say. John might not have been Father of the Year material, but, Dean never doubted his rare loving moments. He knows what it’s like to grow up feeling like a burden. He can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up feeling like a commodity. A wild impulse seizes him and he says, without thinking, “Come to Bobby’s. We always have more food than we know what to do with.” 

Cas smiles, not unkindly. “Thank you for the invitation,” and Dean can recognize a rejection from at least a quarter of a mile away, “but I usually just spend Thanksgiving in quiet contemplation.”

“What are you, the Buddha?”

“Achieving Enlightenment would not be an unreasonable use of my time, but no, as far as I know, I am not.” 

“You can be a real smartass, you know that?”

“You’ve reminded me, several times.”

“Well, obviously it hasn’t done any good, because here you are. Seriously man, let yourself have something nice. Come to Bobby’s. We have dinner around three in the afternoon, so you can still get brunch in with the rest of the robots.” 

Cas deliberately sets the laptop aside. He meets Dean’s eyes, expression thoughtful. “You’re serious?”

Stung, Dean snaps, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.” 

Ignoring his tone, Cas purses his lips and nods. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll certainly think about it.” 

“Good. Good.” Dean settles back into the couch and tries to ignore the happy little jump of his stomach when he thinks about Cas at Bobby’s for Thanksgiving, about having his family all gathered around him, close enough to hold, for one afternoon, safe and happy under the same roof, like they might stretch a day into an eternity. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean drops the news that weekend, over the last bit of dinner. “I invited Cas over for Thanksgiving dinner,” he says, slurping the last noodle off of his fork. “His family doesn’t do dinner, and we have enough leftovers to feed the army of Denmark, so I thought I might as well.” 

Silence greets his announcement. Sam is actually frozen, fork halfway to his mouth, and even Ellen’s face shows a crack of emotion. Jo’s mouth hangs open in startled delight as her eyes flit between Dean and the other inhabitants of the table. Jess looks surprisingly unconcerned, while Bobby looks pissed (but that’s his default expression, so Dean’s honestly not that worried). 

“And?” Ellen asks, breaking the silence. 

“Don’t know. He said that he’d think about it.” Dean shrugs, now uncomfortable with the attention. He’d expected Sam to have some sort of reaction, god knows that butterfly didn’t land on the back porch without Sam having some sort of reaction, but he’s confused by the rest of them. He’s brought people over for dinner before. Lisa was a regular at weekend dinners, and in high school Cassie was known to stop by every now and again. Hell, he even brought Aaron by once or twice, and that had only been a fling. 

Oh. Now that he thinks about it, there’s always been something in common between the people that he’s brought over for dinner. 

Time to close that can of worms. 

“He was going to be sitting at home ‘in quiet contemplation’. Tell me that doesn’t just make you want to blow your brains out.” 

“Yeah.” Sam has to choke down a whole gallon of water before he can offer his opinion. “Yeah, that sounds bad.” 

“Well it’s going to make us an odd number, which means that I’ll have to bring someone over,” Jo comments, twisting noodles around on her fork. 

“Who?” Dean comments, maybe a little unkindly. “Benny and Charlie are both out of town for Thanksgiving.” 

A splash of red sweeps across Jo’s cheeks and she glares in a way which promises retribution. Dean makes a note to check his trunk. The last time Jo was pissed at him, she put a dead fish in Baby’s wheel well and the stench lingered for weeks. 

“Well Dean, you’d better make sure that he brings some kind of food. We’re not running a charity here.” 

Ellen’s words seem to settle it, though Sam is oddly quiet for the rest of dinner. Jess remains placid as she lays her hand over Sam’s in a way that, to the uninitiated would appear consoling, but to Dean appears like a warning. Bobby is also quiet, though his silence comes with a lot more glaring. 

Dean finds out why after dinner, when Bobby tells him to come out to the garage. “Just for a second, there’s something going on with this Dodge that I can’t figure out.” 

Dean smells a trap, but goes anyway. There actually is a Dodge in the garage, but Bobby doesn’t even let Dean get close before he purposefully clears his throat. “Big step, Thanksgiving dinner.”

No one ever accused Dean at being quick on the uptake. “What?” It’s only when he notices the red at the tips of Bobby’s ears and the way that he’s trying to disappear behind his beard, that Dean figures out what he’s talking about. “No!” he says, ignoring the small dip of disappointment. “No Bobby, it’s not...God, it’s not that. Seriously,” he says at Bobby’s disbelieving look. “I meant it: his plans sounded depressing as all hell and I felt sorry for him, so I thought that I’d at least give him the chance to have a real Thanksgiving.” 

“I wouldn’t tell him that you felt sorry for him,” Bobby says, as he runs his hand over the Dodge’s frame. “His first year was the year I retired,” Bobby answers the unspoken question, “and from the impression I got off of him, he’d take to pity just about as well as you.” 

“It’s not...it’s not pity.” Dean can’t say what it is, because he doesn’t know himself, but he knows that he’d rather smash his fingers in a car door before he’d pity Cas. “It’s just Thanksgiving, Bobby. It’s family and from what he’s said, Cas doesn’t really have one. He has photo opportunities, and cousins that function like acquaintances.” 

Bobby is quiet for a long minute, long enough that Dean wonders if he’s forgotten the original point of the conversation. When he speaks, his voice is oddly husky. “Well, if anyone’s going to teach him what a real family acts like, it’ll be you.” 

Dean grimaces at the unexpected prickling behind his eyes. Must be the chemicals, or maybe a last little burst of pollen. Weird to have allergens this late in the season. 

“Yeah, he can watch you and Ellen bitch all through dinner and Jo be a little brat and Sam cry into his cranberries, and then Jess can terrify him after dinner, and I’ll disgust him when I try to shove three pies in my mouth at once--”

“Shut up, you idgit.” The words, said without heat, still have the same effect on Dean as they did when he was fourteen. The idgit shuts up. “If you ain’t realized by now, you made this family, you and Sam. Ellen wouldn’t have looked twice at an old drunk, and who changed that?”

“Pretty sure you did, with the power of positive--” A particularly ill-natured glower has Dean shutting up once more. 

“You ain’t stupid, so stop pretending to be. Ellen, Jo, hell, probably even Jess...if it weren’t for you being such a stubborn little brat, then none of them would be sitting in that house, and you damn well know it. So, when I say that if anyone can show Milton what it means to have a family, it’s you, just shut up and take the damn compliment.”

“Yes sir,” Dean mutters. Like always, compliments crawl underneath his skin, make him want to look around for the nearest hole to hide in. He looks around, but no convenient holes appear for his use. Instead, he’s forced to scratch the back of his neck endure the uncomfortable itch which sounds a lot like his father: _This is what you’re supposed to do, this is all you’ll ever be good for, this is all that you’ll ever deserve…_

Yeah, Dean has a lot to be thankful for. 

“Look Bobby, I’m going to go back into the house…”

“No you ain’t, you think that I was just calling you out here so that we could braid each other’s hair? I need help with this damn thing.” 

 

 

\--

 

Working on the car settles him and when Dean walks back in the house, he feels better than when he left it. Despite how much he loves his job, and he loves his job a lot, part of him only feels calm when his fingernails are caked with grease and dirt. What that says about him, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. 

Ellen hands him a glass of whiskey, which he gladly accepts. He takes his glass into the living room, but he pauses halfway there, ducking behind the sliding door. Bobby entered after him and he’s still in the kitchen. Ellen pours him a glass of whiskey, but instead of handing it directly to him, she playfully yanks it back, holding it close to her chest. 

He’s too far away to hear the low conversation between the two of them, a fact that he’s happy for as Bobby leans in close and brushes his lips along Ellen’s jaw. He also takes the opportunity to snatch the glass out of her hand, drinking triumphantly when he pulls away. Dean does manage to Ellen’s exclamation of “Bobby Singer, you tricky son of a bitch,” but she sounds pleased instead of angry. 

Dean leaves when she puts her hands on Bobby’s chest and leans in closely--there are some things that even his stomach can’t handle. Ellen and Bobby making out over the dirty dishes is definitely one of them. 

He joins Sam, Jess, and Jo in the living room. Sam has the night’s game on, but thankfully the two blonde demons are busy with other tasks: Jess is preoccupied with reading one of Bobby’s paperbacks, and Jo is busily sleeping in the window seat. Dean sits down in the armchair closest to Sam. 

“So Samantha,” he begins, because Sam’s face during dinner had promised that they were going to have the Winchester version of A Talk. These involve a lot of aborted sentences, many Looks, and usually Sam storming off in a huff. 

Sam holds up his right hand. His left, Dean is interested to find, is suddenly clutched in Jess’, in a grip that looks punishing in its strength. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” Sam says, like each word causes him physical pain. “You’re doing a nice thing for a friend, who happens to be our friend, and we’ll support your decision.” 

Dean taps his chin before shooting a glance to Jess. “Did he manage to get the script right?” 

Jess never looks up from her book. “He did miss a little bit about how you’re brothers, which means that you’ll always have each other’s back no matter what, but yeah, he got the important parts.”

Sam looks constipated. “Are the two of you done?” He doesn’t dare descend into bitchiness, not with Jess sitting next to him and still holding his hand like she’s trying to crush it back to normal people size, but it’s damn close. 

“Go write about it in your diary Sammy,” Dean grunts, settling back into the chair. 

Sam purses his lips, which just makes it look like he’s been eating prunes. Probably to get that constipated look off his face. Oh yeah, Dean’s managed to piss off two siblings today and he’ll have to watch his back, but isn’t that what family is all about?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

The week before Thanksgiving break passes in a flash. There’s grading to be finished, not to mention their project proposals are due. Dean and Cas spend a night at Cas’ house (“Because my house is more conducive to completing work Dean”), in which hardly any talking happens. It’s worth it: once their proposal is finalized, it’s truly a melding of their two disciplines. More than that, he thinks that their students will actually be able to sink their teeth into this project, and horror of horrors, they might actually learn something from it. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Winchester,” Cas says, leaning back in his office chair, after pushing ‘send’ on the email to Naomi. “I think that we’ve done rather well.”

Dean ducks his head into his collar, trying to hide his smile. He’s pleased, not only with the fact that this is one thing off his back, but also with the satisfaction of a job well done. 

“Thought any more about Thanksgiving?” Dean asks, turning to the really important question. 

Cas’ smile dims and Dean hates himself for making that happen. “I told you that I would think about it,” he says.

“I know, I know,” Dean says. He changes the subject, obviously and awkwardly, but Cas doesn’t mention it. 

Dean can’t stop thinking about it, however, and has to keep biting his tongue for the rest of the night. He can’t understand why Cas wouldn’t immediately jump at the opportunity to not be alone, to not be miserable on a holiday. Unless, maybe he’s happier sitting at home alone? Dean dismisses that thought. Introverted though Cas might be, he knows that the other man is happy with company. He’s looked over at him on Friday nights, his cheeks flushed pink with the cold, and seen Cas’ face split in a grin, watched Cas lose himself in conversation with Jess and Sam, and even watched him fabulously lose a game of darts to Benny. Cas likes spending time with Dean’s friends, and most importantly, with Dean himself. Why wouldn’t he like spending time with Dean over Thanksgiving?

The question plagues Dean all through the rest of the week. He wakes up on Wednesday and stretches luxuriously in his bed, loving the chance to sleep in. He has work to do today: prepping the casseroles and making the deviled eggs, but for now he can enjoy a few more minutes in bed. 

Eventually he gets out of bed and he spends the rest of Wednesday getting ready for tomorrow. It’s enjoyable for him, to lose himself in the minutiae of cooking, of combining ingredients, and creation. He puts on the radio and sings along to _Immigrant Song_ , narrowly missing taking off the tips of his fingers with a wild stroke of his knife. 

He’ll suffer for his art. 

 

\----

 

Thanksgiving morning dawns, chilly and bright. Dean packs up the food he prepared the prior day before heading to Bobby’s. He walks in on Ellen sliding the turkey into the oven and slides out of her way, while trying to find room in the refrigerator for his food. Bobby hovers over the range, poking at several pots simmering while grimacing at all of them. 

“Jo not up yet?” Dean asks, wandering over to the counter. If he’s not mistaken, the ingredients there look like they could be combined to make a smashing apple pie. 

“Of course not.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “Even if she was, do you think that we would let her into the kitchen?” She has a point: Jo is awful in the kitchen, even worse than Cas. To the best of his knowledge, Cas has never managed to actually set something on fire. Jo has so many kitchen fires to her name that if Dean were a more suspicious man, he would think that Jo was an aspiring arsonist. As it is, Jo is simply banned from every kitchen. The woman put tin foil in a microwave for God’s sake. 

“Sam and Jess should be here any minute and Dean Winchester, you stop fooling around with that!” Ellen’s voice is a bark that frightened twelve year old Dean and still sends a shiver of trepidation down twenty-eight year old Dean’s spine. “Out of the kitchen! Get out!” She brandishes a wooden spoon at him. Dean knows from experience the sharp pain of having that spoon applied to the back of his hand and he retreats accordingly. 

He finds Jo, still in her pajamas, loitering in the living room. “Lazy,” Dean accuses, flopping down next to her. She grumbles and he stretches out his legs on top of her, grunting in satisfaction. 

“Perks of being the only family member who can’t cook,” she says, clutching her blanket tighter around her chin. “Turns out if you burn enough ovens, no one asks you to wake up early and help.”

“I knew that no one could be as hopeless in the kitchen as you.” Dean reaches over and easily snatches the remote from her grasp. 

“Don’t turn it on the parade,” Jo begs, though it’s not important enough for her to emerge from her cocoon.

Dean flips through the limited channels on the television. He does stop on the parade, just long to enough to make Jo wail in discontent, but the persistently cheerful pop music is too much for him and he swiftly finds another channel. He lands on the local news station and he’s ready to move on, except for the familiar face which catches his attention. 

“Is that Castiel?” Sam looms over the back of the couch, with Jess beside him. Their attention is focused on the screen, where, as an overly chirpy reporter informs them, they’re stopping in with Mayor Michael Milton, a man in love with alliteration, as his name will attest to. 

All right, Dean made up the last bit, but Mayor Michael looks like the worst kind of tool. Handsome, in a bland way, with dark hair and a Clark Kent cleft chin. His expensive suit hangs perfectly off of his trainer-toned frame. The camera pans lovingly over his face, close enough so that Dean can see that his eyes are blue, like Cas’, but also not. Michael’s hold more iceberg than summer-sky. 

Dean was prepared to hate Mayor Michael and he’s not disappointed. He turns the volume up, in time to hear Michael say, “Yes, while I would love a traditional dinner with my family,” the camera breaks off its love affair with his face to pan around the room. Various family members mill around a dining room disguised as a banquet hall, but Dean spies the only figure he cares about. Cas, dressed in what Dean knows is his best suit, sits alone at the furthest corner, and stares at his clasped hands on the table. He looks small, somehow, defeat pushing his shoulders into a slump. 

“What’s wrong with Cas?” Jo asks, shoving at Dean’s feet so she can sit up straight. 

Dean waves at hand in her face to shush her, his eyes intent upon the screen. The camera returns to Michael’s face, just in time for him to say, “But I realize that the more unfortunate members of our community need me, this day more than any other day.” No one should say those words while wearing a smile, and yet, Michael manages it. There’s even an honest to god twinkle in his eyes. It reminds Dean of a Bond villain. 

Sam begins. “He’s kind of…”

“Creepy?” Jess and Jo finish in unison. 

Dean ignores them, for the most part, as he stares at the screen. He hopes for another glimpse of Cas, but the camera man seems more intent with tracing each and every contour of Michael’s male-model face. It makes Dean wonder when the money-shot is coming, pardon the pun. The camera finally pans away, but it’s just for one last, lingering sweep of the mansion, before it lands on the reporter standing next to Mayor Michael. 

“This is Traci Jones, reporting from the house of Mayor Milton. We hope that you’ll all take a page from Mr. Milton’s book and consider the less fortunate on this day.” Mayor Michael puts his arm around the reporter’s shoulders and Dean thinks that she might cry from sheer bliss. “For our parts, we’re thankful to be with a man who cares enough about his community to give back to it, this and every day. From all of us here at Channel Four News, have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

It’s lucky Dean doesn’t have anything in his stomach, or else it would be on the floor by now. Next to him, Jo fake-gags, and even Sam looks vaguely nauseous. 

Dean changes the channel, unable to stomach any other human interest stories. He settles on some dog show. Boring as all hell, but it has the benefit of not making him want to hurl across Bobby’s furniture. 

He’d thought that Cas was exaggerating. God help him, but he’d really thought that there was something of sour grapes in Cas’ complaints. But after seeing that...Dean’s never trusted politicians to begin with, but there’s something particularly unsavory about Mayor Michael. 

“I’m glad that I didn’t vote for him,” Jess offers, perching on the arm of the couch. “He has a huge amount of support in the city, though. Pamela thinks that he might run for Congress when his term as mayor is up. She thinks that he’s a shoe-in for the job.”

“Gross.” Jo burrows back into her blankets until just her nose and forehead are visible. 

“Cas still hasn’t answered you about this afternoon?” Sam’s voice is a little too kind and patient for Dean’s liking, but he’s trying, which is the important part. 

Dean shrugs and tries to look nonchalant. “No. I guess he had to weigh his other offers, see which one was the most appealing.” He can feel Sam’s Concerned Face without ever having to look. “Look Sammy,” Dean turns, and yep, it’s Sam’s puppy-dog face, “if he shows, he shows. If he doesn’t, then oh well. At least we tried.” 

Sam thankfully lets it lie and sits next to Jess on the window seat, where he becomes more absorbed in a dog show than anyone really should become. At the point when he starts to harangue the judges about the conformation of a Golden Retriever, Dean slips out back into the kitchen. At least this version of insanity makes a little bit of sense to him. 

Inside the kitchen is madness, but it’s a predictable madness. Ellen and Bobby constantly manage to get in each other’s way and snipe at each other the whole time, but it’s no different than any other Thanksgiving Dean can remember. 

“If you’re going to stand there boy, make yourself useful,” Bobby snaps, turning his ire on the nearest victim. He tosses a peeler at Dean, who snatches it out of the air. “You want your pies, get to peeling.” 

Dean can get behind that logic and he sets to peeling with a good will. Behind him, Ellen and Bobby continue to bicker, but it’s comforting. “Move your ass, Singer,” Ellen snaps, to be answered by Bobby’s, “If you weren’t in my way, then I wouldn’t need to move.” He’s not sure if this is how other families behave, but it’s his family. 

When his hand starts to cramp and the tips of his fingers prune from the juice, he sets his burden aside. A pile of freshly peeled apples sits, ready to be spiced and folded into one of Ellen’s masterpieces. He wipes his hands on his jeans and takes the opportunity to take out his phone. 

He debates whether or not he should, but he eventually caves. He taps out a quick message and sends it before he can have second thoughts. 

_hey cas, just wanted to let you know that the invitation still stands if you’re interested. you’ll have to watch a dog show, and listen to ellen and bobby bitch. but i just finished peeling apples for an awesome pie._

Dean waits, his fingers tapping against the screen, before he thinks to hell with it, and sends out another message. 

_no pressure or anything but itd be cool if you came_

With that said, Dean puts his phone in his pocket. He’s done all that he can do and he can’t spend the whole of Thanksgiving worrying about whether or not Cas will take the lifeline. 

He steps between Bobby and Ellen when their back and forth threatens to become a little too heated, and mixes together the pastry for the apple pie. He sneaks little slivers off of the turkey when it comes out of the oven, dodging stabs from the carving fork every time. Jess ventures in to help and between the four of them, Thanksgiving dinner comes together. 

Dean explains the senior project to Ellen, who listens as she sips from a glass of whiskey. It might only be noon, but hell, it’s a holiday. She nods and compliments their ideas, and Dean’s so caught up in the conversation that he almost misses it when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

It buzzes again, and Dean’s nerves jump in sympathy. He digs in his pocket and reads over the message. It’s succinct and perfectly punctuated, pure Cas. 

_I’m on my way_. 

 

\--

 

Bobby’s shop sits at the end of a long driveway, far away from the sounds of the road, so the sound of tires crunching gravel travels easily into the house. Dean restrains the impulse to peer out the window and instead waits until he hears the sharp rap on the door. 

“Honey, can you grab the door, please?” Now that the food preparation is complete, and she’s two tumblers of whiskey deep, Ellen’s temper has smoothed into sweet molasses. 

“Yeah.” Dean makes his way to the door, taking a deep breath before he opens it. It’s just Cas. He’s seen Cas hundreds of times, had at least two dozen meals with the man. 

But this is Thanksgiving, and this is his family, and this is _Cas_. 

He opens the door just as Cas raises his hand to knock again. Cas blinks at him, before a bashful smile pulls at his lips. He’s changed from the morning, dressed just in a sweater and jeans. In his hands is a familiar looking box. 

“Did you bring pie?” Dean cranes his head to see inside the box. “Pecan pie? Cas man, I love you.” 

The words slip out before he can stop them and he freezes. Cold curls around his heart and he stares helplessly at Cas, before laughing, with only a hint of hysteria. Cas smiles back, though he looks like he’s still waiting for Dean to explain the joke. 

“I’m told that it’s customary to bring an offering of either food or alcohol to a gathering.” Cas indicates the box in his hands. “I thought that you would appreciate this more than a bottle of wine.”

“Definitely. We’re more of a whiskey family anyway.” 

A moment passes, and Dean becomes aware that he’s blocking Cas’ entry into the house. “Hey, come on in.” Cas steps into the foyer and gazes around at the carefully cultivated clutter of Bobby’s house. For the first time, he looks hesitant. 

The memory of Cas earlier that morning hits Dean. Cas looks like he can’t quite believe his good luck, like at any point he expects someone to jump in front of him and shove him back out into the cold. It’s wrong, and he should know that someone in the world wants him. 

With his brain on hold, Dean steps forward. He takes the pie from Cas’ hands and sets it on the entry table before he reaches out and pulls Cas into a hug. 

It’s so easy, the way that his arms wrap around Cas’ frame, the way that his chin rests naturally on Cas’ shoulder. The soft tickle of Cas’ hair against his temple, the way that Dean can feel each rise and fall of Cas’ chest against his. From this close, he can hear the soft rasp of Cas’ breathing, the stutter that escapes him when Dean squeezes. “I’m really glad that you made it,” he says, breath puffing against Cas’ neck. 

A second stretches into hours before Cas’ arms tentatively rise. Dean curves into Cas, as the warm weight of his hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades. Cas’ fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt and Dean represses a shiver as the blunt pressure of Cas’ nails press into his skin through the fabric of the shirt. Cas’ grip is strong, strong enough for Dean to relax into. “Yeah,” Cas says, dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder, his breath warm against his shirt. “Yeah, me too.” 

 

\--

Dean carries the memory of the hug for the rest of the day. It’s the most delicious sort of secret, the kind that he never got to hold as a teenager: illicit and thrilling. It doesn’t feel like he should be allowed to have this, like this is a moment stolen from someone else’s life. Whenever he starts to wonder if maybe he hallucinated the whole thing, he just sneaks a look at Cas and then he remembers: the way that Cas’ hands felt as they pulled him closer, the feel of Cas’ nose pressing into the turn of his clavicle. 

And it’s stupid, to feel this elated over a simple hug. Dean knows that. But he also knows, in the vague academic way of educational psych classes, that he’s simultaneously a tactile person and a touch-starved person. He makes do by cannibalizing his own touches: fingers pushing at his scalp, palms scrubbing over his cheeks, but at the end of the day, it’s someone else’s heat, someone else’s energy that he really wants. 

But, for various reasons, Dean can’t spend the rest of the afternoon mooning over the way that his skin still prickles with the memory of Cas’ hands. So he leads Cas to the kitchen, where he shares a handshake with both a gimlet eyed Bobby and a newly re-sharpened Ellen. Bobby seems content with pumping Cas’ hand once, but Ellen holds on, for so long that Dean halfway suspects that she’s trying to break his hand. To his credit, Cas doesn’t whimper or beg for mercy, though there is a tightness to his genial smile. 

“I very much appreciate you having me over for dinner,” Cas says, once Ellen’s established her dominance and released him. “I hope that my presence here isn’t much of an imposition.” 

Dean is reminded that Cas is actually a polite son of a bitch when he chooses to be. 

Ellen smiles, and Dean shudders. “Nonsense. Any friend of Dean’s.” She lets her voice trail off as, like a magician, she produces a tumbler of whiskey from some unknown location. 

“Oh no,” Dean begins, the steely jaws of the trap springing closed. Cas takes the glass in his elegant fingers, face impassive. “Ellen, this isn’t a good idea…”

“This is hospitality,” she answers, without ever taking her eyes off of Cas. Dean had been a fool to think that she would rest with a simple handshake. 

Ellen’s vicious protective streak got Dean out of quite a few scrapes when he was younger, but he’s almost thirty now and doesn't need protecting. This is just posturing. 

Cas sniffs delicately at the glass. Worry bubbles up in Dean. He’s never seen Cas drink anything harder than hipster beers, some local brewery crap, and even then, never more than two. This situation not only has the potential, but the promise, to turn nasty. 

“Cas, you know Ellen, she’s just…” The glint in Ellen’s eyes warns Dean that if he finishes that sentence, then he’ll regret it. 

Cas cocks his heads towards Dean. “It’s fine Dean,” he murmurs, his gaze still locked on Ellen’s face. He only breaks contact to toss the two fingers of whiskey back in one smooth movement. His upper lip lifts in a grimace as his throat works. Dean watches the bob of his Adam’s apple with a sick fascination, his stomach swooping with its rise and fall. Cas politely hands the glass back to Ellen. 

She grins, tosses back her own whiskey, acquired from the same mysterious liminal space as the first glass, and claps Castiel on the shoulder. 

“Welcome to the family, Cas,” she says, before refilling both glasses. 

 

\--

 

Dean learns two things over Thanksgiving dinner. 

One, Cas possesses the ability to drink all of them, with maybe the exception of Ellen, under the table. 

Two, Cas gets along strangely well with the rest of the family. 

It was no shock to Dean that Cas and Sam got along like a house on fire: they're both freaky smart, with the kind of brains which devour knowledge. He knows from football nights that Cas and Jess can while away the hours while she explains the latest project of her child advocacy firm. Jo seems more bemused by Cas than anything else, but she’s food drunk enough to where even that’s tempered into fondness. 

The real surprises are Ellen and Bobby. They took to Lisa and Cassie with a resigned affection, but there was always the slight catch between their personalities that assured that Cassie and Lisa were going to be on the outside, looking in. While Bobby doesn’t offer to take Cas outside and have a game of catch with him, and Ellen doesn’t offer to knit him socks for the winter, there’s none of the abrasiveness that Dean was expecting. Cas just...settles. Almost like he was always there. 

If the food and the pie weren’t enough to make him happy, that would do it. 

Halfway through dinner, Dean’s knee knocks against Cas’. It’s not surprising: There’s seven of them crowded around a table meant to seat five at most, so elbows are slamming into each other with alarming regularity. Dean’s left arm goes numb beneath the elbow after a particularly savage jab from Jo’s stabby elbows. 

What is unusual is that neither of them moves. Dean’s knee pushes against Cas’ and instead of jerking back, Cas pushes forward. Dean slides his eyes across the table and grins at Cas. Cas smiles back at him, knocks his knee against Dean’s, and leaves it there for the remainder of the meal. 

Dean’s stomach swoops again, a bird wheeling through the sky. Once again, he tries to remind himself that this, this stupid little crush, is something that he needs to squash down, but that voice gets drowned out by the larger part of him, the one thrumming with happiness as Cas’ foot presses against his. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, but somehow he can’t stop. 

 

\--

After dinner is over, and the dishes are cleaned off enough to pass Ellen’s inspection, everyone winds their way to Bobby’s living room. Bobby and Ellen sink down into their armchairs, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves. Sam and Jess curl up on the window seat, which leaves Dean, Jo, and Cas to squash themselves on the couch. Dean winds up in the middle, a fact for which he will not complain, as it shoves Cas against his side. 

Snuggled up in one room like, it’s almost too perfect for Dean. He’s never been one of those people to think that he would get the apple-pie, white picket fence kind of life: his whole legacy kind of shot that idea from age four on. But this...Bobby, already falling asleep in his chair, feet propped up on ratty ottoman, with his hand outstretched towards Ellen’s chair, Ellen, sipping from a tumbler of whiskey, her eyes on the evening paper as her pinky brushes against Bobby’s hand...Sam and Jess, curled up on the window seat as the dim lamplight glints off of Jess’ engagement ring, Jo, back in her blankets and already falling asleep, her head tilting down towards the arm of the couch as she puts her feet on Dean’s lap. And then there’s Cas, Cas who kept on meeting Dean’s eyes all through dinner and giving him that secret, half-smile. Cas, whose hand is perilously close to Dean’s. 

Dean’s heart expands, to the point where he thinks that his ribcage might crack under the pressure. If he moved his pinky just a millimeter, he could hook it around Cas’ pinky. An unspeakably foolish idea, considering what happened the night of Charlie’s party, but it’s bubbling up again, the wild, reckless urge that only seems to rise whenever he’s close to Cas. 

The discordant tones of _Smoke on the Water_ shatter any illusion of peace. 

Sam's head jerks up, a hound sensing danger. His eyes are sharp and suspicious. Barricaded between his long legs, Jess grabs at his wrist, her face tight with tension. Jo’s eyes slice over to Dean, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. Bobby glowers, all semblance of sleep vanished. Ellen is a quiet storm, green skies portending a tornado waiting to touch down on the prairie. 

Cas would have to be an idiot not to catch the tension of the room. It rockets through his frame as he stiffens and pulls away from Dean. Dean would mourn his loss, but he can’t think about that, not when his phone vibrates disaster against his leg. 

His hand shaking, Dean inches his phone out of his pocket. The screen scorches his eyes in the dim light. The name on the screen reaches inside him, twists his guts until Dean bites his lip from the hurt of it. Amazing that he would even remember to call today, but stranger things have happened. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is the same kind of desperate urgent that it was all throughout Dean’s youth, and it kicks at something instinctual in him, _Take care of Sammy_. How many times had he heard that voice, that tone, said to him in motel rooms illuminated by headlights and road signs, with walls so paper-thin that they could hear their neighbors’ conversations and...other activities. Dean would turn up the TV, but he couldn’t erase the sound of the road, nor he could erase the sound of a fist banging against the door, and he can’t erase the sound of his phone breaking his dream of, just for once, having a normal life. 

“Dean,” Sam says again, plaintive, “Dean, don’t answer. Please, don't answer.” 

_Take care of Sammy_ , and Dean would, Dean does, except he can’t do what Sam wants, not now. Not with John’s voice echoing in his head, _I’m your father Dean, and you owe me some damn respect_! 

Dean swallows and presses viciously at the green ‘answer’ icon. 

“Hi Dad.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for that cliffhanger, but hopefully it won't be that long before I get the next chapter out for your reading pleasure.


	9. different people with a common pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Dean and Castiel are both carrying the same baggage. Maybe not the same color but definitely the same style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for all you pro-John Winchester people out there, but this is not a very pro-John story. Sorry, not sorry, but John Winchester is just Not A Good Dad.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Dean was ten, John tried to give them a Thanksgiving. 

He went to the grocery store on Thursday afternoon, just before they closed for the evening, and pilfered through their battered cans and leftover turkeys. Even discounted, the turkeys were too much for Dad’s depleted wallet, and so he’d innovated with some turkey deli meat. He brought the food back to the motel room and dumped it out on one of the beds, a pauper displaying his meager treasure. The cans clanked against each other as they tumbled across the musty bedspread. 

“What’s this?” Sam asked, clambering up and inspecting a can of green beans which was bent almost in half. 

“Thanksgiving,” John answered. From his tone, Dean already knew that this was going to end in disaster, but it was like a nightmare: he could see the monster, but couldn’t run, couldn’t wake up, couldn’t fathom any escape. 

“Mandy says that her grandmother makes mashed potatoes from scratch for Thanksgiving,” Sam said, tossing the can back onto the bed, nose wrinkled in distaste. “And that they have so much leftover turkey that they eat it for a whole month after.”

“And where do you want us to put all that turkey, huh?” John’s voice dipped dangerously low, but Sam wasn’t old enough yet to sense the danger. Dean, wiser in the ways of the world, glared a hole in the back of his brother’s head, silently begging for him to shut up. 

“I dunno,” Sam mumbled, finally sensing the danger, too late.

“Yeah, that’s right,” John snapped. “You want to shove the cooler full of it, so that we can’t have anything else?”

“No.” Sam’s lower lip wobbled. 

“Why don’t you tell your friend Mandy to come over so that she can show us how to cook Thanksgiving. Better yet, why don’t you go over to her house, since she’s better than your own damn family!”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears. Dean darted forward, putting himself between John and his brother. 

“Hey Dad, it’s fine,” he said, smiling. He wanted to reach out but knew instinctively that doing so would spark a fire he could not contain. “Come on, we’ll cook dinner and it’ll be fine.”

“Have Sam cook it, if it matters that much to him,” John snapped, and before Dean could try anything else to keep him, he was gone, slamming the door so hard that a thin crack splintered the doorframe. 

Dean perched by the door and waited. Foolish to hope that John would be back, but it was a child’s hope and he was a child. Ten minutes passed, and then he had to conclude that his Dad was gone. 

“Dean,” Sam said, tentatively. He walked up next to Dean, already cringing. “Dean, I’m sorry, I just don’t know why we don’t...Why can’t we have turkey for Thanksgiving? Why can’t we go to Uncle Bobby’s?”

“Because we can’t!” Dean snapped, and instantly regretted it when two fat tears rolled down Sam’s red cheeks. 

That Thanksgiving ended with Dean heating a can of green beans on the camp stove and Sam fumbling with the strips of deli meat with his clumsy fingers. John hadn’t returned until two in the morning, when he managed to kick one boot off before collapsing into bed. The remaining cans rolled around him, not that he seemed to mind. 

Dean sneaked out from underneath Sam’s arm and crept to where his father was sleeping. With practiced fingers, he untied the laces of his other boot and slid it off John’s foot. He put them neatly by the door before he crawled back into bed. Still deep in his sleep, Sam grumbled and rolled away from him. Dean lay in the uncomfortable bed, sweltering under the itchy sheets, and waited for morning. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

“Dean, please don’t answer.” 

His brother’s plea is muffled, faint, brushing up against him out of a fog. Dean hears him, the same way that he can a train whistle in the distance, but he can’t obey. Something still tugs at him, _You’ll always listen, right Dean? You wouldn’t let your old man down?_ Despite the fact that he did let his old man down, numerous times. 

Cas blinks, eyebrows knitting together in concern, and Dean scrubs his mind clear of that, of everything, as he pushes the green icon. 

“Hi Dad.” 

Static crackles on the other end of the line before he hears, “Hi Dean.”

Dean sucks in a harsh breath through his nose. It stings. “How...how are you doing?”

Everyone’s eyes rest on him, boring holes through him. He feels so hollow and scraped clean, that Dean’s surprised he’s still visible. His free hand clenches and opens on his knee, scraping at the rough denim of his jeans. 

John’s laugh scrapes through the speakers. “I’m doing all right son. How’s your brother?” 

Nausea scrapes up Dean’s esophagus. In the window seat, Sam is stiff, his jaw clenched. Dean’s eyes flick away from him, unable to bear the accusation he sees carved into his brother’s face. 

“He’s fine,” Dean says softly, but not soft enough to escape the attention of the room. 

The house presses in around him, Bobby’s books and papers and tools crushing him with the weight of the family he built. Meanwhile, on the phone, the family he abandoned laughs. 

He can’t breathe. He inhales but somewhere along the way, the message gets lost and no oxygen makes it to his lungs. He’s suffocating, always, and he can’t take it, Ellen’s worry, Bobby’s anger, Sam’s quiet hate, even Cas’ well-meaning concern--He hates it, because he doesn’t deserve it. 

What kind of son abandons his father? 

Dean pushes up off the couch, Jo’s legs flying as he stumbles out the door. The chill November air lances through him and it burns his throat as he sucks in a deep breath. 

John rambles on, unknowing or unconcerned of what’s happening on Dean’s end of the line. Here, away from distractions, Dean catches the slur on the end of his words, the elongated drawl which can only mean one thing. 

“That girl of his, what’s her name? Jen? Jackie?”

“Jess, Dad. Her name is Jess.” 

“Jess. That’s right.” 

Dean knows that the next time John calls, he’ll have to remind him of Jess’ name again. He does every time. 

“What about you Dean? You got anybody? What was her name? Lindsey?” 

Dean’s throat constricts. “Lisa and I broke up Dad. Five years ago. You know that.” 

Sometimes, he’s not sure whether his father’s memory is going or whether he truly is just that oblivious. He doesn’t know which scenario would be worse. Either one is painful enough to make him catch his breath with the agony of it all. 

“Oh. I knew that.” His father stutters out an uncomfortable laugh. “Well come on, there must be someone.” 

A ridiculous urge comes over Dean--what if he were to tell his father the truth? _Well Dad, there is someone. Too bad that I’m never going to be able to be in a relationship with them. His name is Castiel and I thought that he was an asshole, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Well, actually, he is an asshole, but he’s also the kindest person that I know. And he’s funny, and smart, and gorgeous, and I bet you didn’t know that you raised a queer son, but here we are_. 

“No Dad. There’s no one. I’m really busy with work. I just don’t have time for that.”

“Right.” John’s drawl turns lazy, which is to say, it turns dangerous. The part of Dean that never quite managed to grow up cringes, because it knows what comes next. “Your job.”

John Winchester can’t remember the name of his future daughter-in-law, can’t remember that Dean hasn’t been with Lisa in over five years, but the indignity of Dean’s job never escapes his mind. 

“We’ve been over this,” Dean says, placating. Ten years old, and standing between his dad and Sam, _it’s fine, it’s fine_ , fourteen years old and telling Sam that they had to move, because Dad has a job, thirteen years old and washing the bloodstains out of John’s clothes in the chipped sink of a gas station bathroom, sixteen years old and still between John and Sam, except now Sam is twelve and he doesn’t cower behind Dean anymore, he pushes him aside. John’s hand, snapping out…

“I chose my life. This is what I wanted.” 

“You turned your back on your father,’ John spits. “I needed you, I asked you to be there, and you turned around and ran.” 

Dean clenches his fingers around the phone with such force that he’s amazed the screen doesn’t crack. “I wasn’t going to do that kind of work.” Bruised and bloody knuckles, tonguing open a split lip… “Neither Sam or I was going to do that.” 

“And you get to make that decision, huh? You get to disobey your father?” 

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, though his father’s words follow him. He looks up at the sky, the stars blazing above him. You can always see the night sky so well out at Bobby’s, where there’s hardly any artificial light to block the way…

“Why did you call Dad?” Dean finally asks, lifting the phone back up to his ear. “I know it wasn’t just to yell at me, so why did you bother to call?”

“You speak to your father with a little more respect.” 

The ten year old in Dean cowers, but he’s not ten anymore. He’s twenty-eight and he has a job which he loves and a family that loves him. He knows that he’ll never smooth over the scars, he’ll never truly be happy, because happiness isn't in the cards for someone like him. But he can be content, so he asks again, “Why’d you call Dad?”

“Hard as it may be for you to believe, sometimes I just want to know how you’re doing. It’s not like you let me know.”

Dean closes his eyes, squeezes the muscles until bright lights burst behind his eyelids. It’s cold out here, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and never leaves. For a moment, he lets himself believe the fantasy. Lets himself think that his father honestly cares about Sam’s life, lets himself think that his father genuinely misses them. That if they mailed a wedding invitation, John would show up. That if Dean told the truth, said, _I met someone who’s not like anyone else in the world_ , that his father would care. Lets himself believe that maybe, he, John, and Sam could sit down for a meal, just like millions of fathers and sons across the nation. 

“But look, I’m in a little bit of a bind...I’ve got an address for you, and I just need about three hundred bucks. It’s just a setback, I’ll get the money back in a few weeks, it’s just things are tight right now…”

Dean closes his jaw on a wild howl of laughter. He shoves his knuckle between his teeth, bites down until the copper tang of blood bursts on his tongue. Of all the pathetic, cliche reasons for his father to call him, he needs _money_? 

“I can’t,” Dean bites out, fast and fierce, before he has a chance to change his mind. “I can’t...You’re my father and I’ll always respect you, but I’m not your bank.”

“Dean, don’t--”

“Sam’s getting married in April,” Dean says. “He’s going to stand up there, with the love of his life, and I’m going to be his only blood relative there because we can’t trust that you...that you’ll...” His voice fades away into the crackle of the phone line, pain smothering it until it peters into nothingness. 

When it comes, his father’s voice is pained. “Dean…”

“And I met someone, someone that I really like, and I wish to God that you could meet him, but that’s not going to happen. And yeah, some of that is my fault, but it’s your fault too.”

“Dean, listen here, don’t you just cut me out! I’m still your father--”

Dean manages to get out, “Bye Dad,” without choking outright on the words. He punches blindly at his phone, his father’s voice still echoing through the speaker as his sweaty thumb slides over the screen. It takes him three attempts to end the call. His phone drops to the gravel and Dean doesn’t even bother to try and pick it up. 

He wheezes, trying to force more oxygen to his spinning brain. It doesn’t work--the world keeps whirling around him and the cold air slices through his lungs. His whole chest burns, and it has to be the fact that it’s freezing outside, there’s no other explanation for why it feels like he’s splitting apart at the seams. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, bending over. His forehead presses into the unyielding bone of his knee, but not even that stops the rushing and pounding in his head, the relentless scream of anger and betrayal scraping at his skull. He bolts upright, vision whiting out for a moment, before it returns, slamming into him with colors too bright. The stars gleam ruthlessly above him. 

“Fuck!” he shouts, reaching down and flinging a rock into the tangled jungle of rusty car carcasses. Far away, he hears the sound of glass breaking. Dean pants, every instinct in his body scrabbling at him and telling him to run run run, but he doesn’t have anywhere to run to. 

“Dean?”

Dean freezes, sliding away from the glow of the pole light. Maybe, if he’s lucky, then he can remain hidden…

“Dean?” 

His luck’s never been that good. 

Gravel crunches underneath Castiel’s shoes as he walks forward. He has Dean’s jacket slung over one arm and a full bottle of whiskey in his hands. He looks only vaguely curious, like he happened to run across Dean in the front office 

“Not a good time Cas,” Dean says through clenched teeth. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, like maybe he can make Cas disappear with the power of mind over matter. 

The same instinct that sends dying dogs to abandoned sheds and decaying porches seizes Dean--the last wish of an animal to keep its dying private. He can’t have Cas see him like this, falling apart, weak and pathetic. This is the part of him that’s still sixteen years old, the piece of him that never managed to check out of that last motel. 

“Seriously Cas, get out.” 

Cas’ eyes are huge and incomprehensible in the splash of light provided by the pole light. He tilts his head, considering, and for the first time in a long while, real anger sparks in Dean. 

“Sorry that we couldn’t manage to be the perfect family for you.” Dean drops his voice, puts all the gruffness and disdain into it that he can. “I know that’s what you were gunning for, right?”

It’s a low blow, deliberately vicious and Dean wants to kick himself at the same time that he wants to push Cas away. He wants to bury his face in Cas’ chest and let himself have one moment where he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world on him. Mostly, he just wants to rewind the night to thirty minutes ago, when everything was so soft that it might as well have been a dream. 

Cas doesn’t crumple under the assault, nor does he snap and snarl with fury. He steps forward, slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Later, Dean will realize that’s exactly what he was doing. 

He doesn’t realize just how cold he is until Cas drapes his jacket over his shoulders. Each movement is slow and purposeful and Dean realizes that Cas is giving him plenty of time to back away, to say _No_. 

The word never comes. Cas arranges the jacket over Dean’s shoulders, pulling it closed across his chest. The bottle is heavy in Dean’s hands and he unscrews the lid. He brings the bottle to his mouth and relishes the ache as the whiskey burns a path down his throat. Maybe there’s something to be found in this, oblivion in the bottom of a bottle. Maybe Dad was onto something for all those years. 

That thought stops him cold and rips away whatever solace he could find in the comfortable numbness of a buzz. 

He realizes that Cas is still fiddling with his jacket and he pushes weakly at him. “Cas, leave it. Come on, just leave me alone.” 

Cas catches Dean’s hand in his own. The heat of his skin is enough to scorch and Dean trembles as bright sparks skitter along his hand. “Stop,” Cas says, not a command but not a request either. 

Dean fights him, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. “Just go back inside. I’ll be back in a minute.” He attempts a smile. It hurts. 

Cas blinks slowly, studying Dean. He seems to come to a decision, as, uncaring of his jeans, he hoists himself up to sit on the hood of a car that’s more rust than metal. After another moment, Cas moves closer to him. 

Dean can handle that, can handle this weird Zen mood that Cas is in. He could handle Cas’ hands fondling all over his jacket, a strange mixture of busybody and caring. 

What he can’t handle is Cas’ arm winding around his shoulder, pulling him onto the hood and flush against his side. “Cas, please just leave it,” Dean says, his voice thick and choked. He hasn’t cried in front of someone in years and he’s not trying to break that record tonight, but damn it all if Cas doesn’t just lift his head up so that his chin rests atop Dean’s head. 

“Dean,” he says, just his name. Like it’s actually important. 

It’s too much, all of it, and hey, it’s not like he chose this, right, so there’s no shame in it if he closes his eyes and relaxes against Cas’ chest. No shame if he syncs his breathing with the solid thud of Cas’ heartbeat. No shame if he breathes in the scent of Cas, all detergent, cologne, and soap. 

Cas’ chin moves against Dean’s skull when he speaks. It’s not as uncomfortable as Dean would have thought. 

“They told me that my mother left just a few years after I was born.” Cas’ voice is even but Dean can hear the increase in his heartbeat, feel the sudden pressure of Cas’ fingertips against his shoulder. “She didn’t leave any way for the family to reach her; she was just...gone.” 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, but Cas continues like he didn’t hear Dean. He’s so far gone that it’s possible he didn’t. 

“My father…” Cas’ pulse races wildly and Dean’s free arm sneaks around his waist, pulling him closer. “My father was...unwell. I suppose he did the best he could, with my sister and I to raise, but he was never…” Cas’ chest hitches, convulsive and sudden. “My sister, Anna. She’s three years older than me, and she took over the house. She learned how to forge his signature for permission slips, made his doctor’s appointments…” Cas swallows and the motion travels through Dean. 

“We thought that he was getting better. There was about six months, where he was taking all of his medications, he was going to his doctor, he even went to one of Anna’s art exhibitions. We thought...we thought that maybe it was all over. That maybe…” 

Cas’ voice trails off as he rests his chin atop Dean’s head once more. He doesn’t let go of Dean and Dean doesn’t make to pull away. Maybe this started as Castiel offering comfort to Dean, but somewhere along the way, the tempo of the dance shifted and Cas is taking just as much solace from Dean as Dean is from him. 

“Then one day he was just...He was supposed to be going to a doctor’s appointment. After he was three hours late coming home, Anna called the office. He’d never showed up.” 

Dean listens, his fingers rubbing at Cas’ side. “We waited for as long as we could but eventually...After a week, Anna finally broke down and called Uncle Charles. Michael’s father.” Cas inhales, deep enough that his chest shifts underneath Dean’s cheek. “She was fifteen.” 

Dean’s brain does the math--Twelve, Cas was twelve. Christ. 

“After that, it’s all...Uncle Charles told the police and they looked for Dad. Never could find him, just like they never could find Mom. After two years, Dad was presumed dead. Lucky for us, his will had guardianship of us going to Uncle Charles anyway, so at least we got that part right.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, this time loud enough for Cas to hear him. “Cas, you were just a kid. It’s not...it’s not your fault.”

How many therapists have said to him? Why is it so easy for him to absolve Cas, when he can’t give the same courtesy to himself? 

Cas twitches his shoulder in a tiny shrug. “Uncle Charles was already an old man. He passed when I was fifteen and Anna was eighteen. Michael took over the family, and Anna…” His fingers tighten convulsively on Dean’s shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. “Well, a few years later, Anna made it a hat trick for the Milton family.” 

Dean's told enough half-truths to know that's not the whole story, but he doesn't push. If Cas wanted him to know the whole story, then he would have said it. For right now, Dean will take what he's given and hold it close to his chest. And Cas has given him a hell of a lot. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dean says. He's not speaking from a position of power, with his face half-buried in Cas' chest, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when Cas’ fingers have traveled from Dean’s shoulder, to the middle of his back, creeping over the collar of his jacket to drift over the nape of his neck. “Cas, it wasn’t your fault.” 

Cas shifts his head so that his cheek rests on Dean’s head. His breath ruffles Dean’s hair when he speaks. 

“We don’t get to choose the family we’re born into. But this...Dean, you built a family out of nothing, and that’s...That’s truly remarkable.” 

Cas’ heartbeat has returned to a steady pace underneath Dean’s ear. He listens to it, the reassuring _ba-dum ba-dum_ , breathes in deep. “Sam tell you to come out here?” he finally asks. 

Cas’ fingers drift over the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Bobby did. He seemed to think that you might not want his or Sam’s company.” 

Bobby always was an intuitive son of a bitch. “They tell you why?”

“I didn’t need to know.” 

Cas’ blunt nails move over the goose-pimpled skin of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers, hopes he can pass it off as being from the cold. Cas waits, his arm around Dean, and doesn’t demand answer or reasons. 

Maybe that’s why Dean offers them. 

“After mom died…” Dean begins, and has to stop. He doesn’t have the words to tell this story. After a Sam-mandated therapy session, he knows how to talk about Mom, but about Dad...He tried telling Lisa, once. But it wasn’t in the spirit of Let Me Open Myself Up and Be Vulnerable With You Since We are In a Relationship And This Is What Responsible Adults Do. It was much more in the vein of I Have Been a Giant Dick and This is a Half-Assed Excuse For My Behavior. 

He is Dean Winchester and he is over six feet of inadequacy and bullshit. 

Cas’ hand rubs at his shoulder, then, without warning, he leans back, until he’s reclining on the hood of the car. Cas’ hand on his shoulder urges him to do the same and, without protesting overmuch, Dean goes along with it. The metal is freezing against the unsubstantial barrier of his jeans, and he’s fairly certain that at least one of them is going to come away with tetanus from this endeavor, but all worries fade away, in lieu of the feel of Cas' body next to his. Dean ignores how his body automatically curls into Cas’ side, easy and natural as a compass finding north. His right arm lays haphazardly over Cas’ waist. Cas’ left leg is propped against the front bumper and it’s easy, so easy to throw his right leg over Cas’, to pull his body flush against Cas’ side. His cheek rests on Cas’ shoulder and he tells himself that he’s so close because it’s cold and the heat is comforting, but he can taste the lie without it ever having to pass his lips. 

Cas’ arm curls underneath Dean’s shoulders, his hand resting easily on Dean’s head. His other hand lies soft on Dean’s arm, fingers idly rubbing over the leather of Dean’s jacket. His chin rests on Dean’s forehead, gentle pressure. 

Here, like this, Dean can speak into the secrecy of Cas’ chest, his fingers plucking restlessly at the fabric of Cas’ sweater. The words come haltingly, but the longer he speaks, the easier they come, like a wound being cleaned. 

“When mom died, Dad went a little...He was obsessed. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that someone must have wanted her dead.” Dean laughs, a miserable, bitter sound. “There was no reason why he would think that. She was a stay-at-home mom who volunteered at the local library. There was nothing in her history, nothing...But he was convinced. Went to the police station every day until one of the detectives finally told him that if he showed up again, he’d be arrested as a nuisance.” 

“I can only remember bits and pieces from back then; Sam wasn’t even walking yet. But after getting the brush-off from the cops, and after the insurance payment and settlement money came in, Dad just took off. Put everything that we had in the Impala and drove off. He was determined, you see, that he was going to find the person who killed Mom.” 

Cas’ fingers rub at his scalp and Dean’s weak, he’s so fucking weak for this man. He relaxes into the touch, exhales against Cas’ shoulder. “He never stopped believing. He stopped talking about it, but if I called him back and asked him right now...He’d tell me about another lead he was chasing, twenty-four years later.

“When we got older, Sam and I realized that it was a dead end, that, that sometimes shit just happens.” Cas’ fingers press hard on Dean’s elbow. “But we were kids, you know? Dad told us that someone had killed Mom and we were going to find who did it.” 

Cas’ nose brushes against Dean’s hairline, so softly that Dean thinks that it must have been an accident. “So we kept on crisscrossing the country, searching out leads. Dad would take odd jobs here and there, just enough to keep gas in the Impala. We’d spend a month in one town, a week in another. At first I thought it was fun, you know? Seeing the world? But then...he started to disappear and leave us at the hotel. At first he was gone for hours. And then it was days.” 

Dean swallows, licks lips gone chapped and dry. “When I was ten...He left us for a week and a half. The food ran out...I finally went to the desk clerk and called Bobby. Bobby came that night, took me and Sam here. He called Dad, told him what he’d done.” Dean sighs, breathes in the scent of Cas. “Dad didn’t show up for another two weeks.” 

Cas’ arms tighten, pulling Dean closer. Dean, limp with memory, doesn’t bother to protest. “Oh Dean,” he murmurs, low voice dripping over Dean like treacle, like a down blanket. “Oh Dean.” This time, when his nose brushes against Dean’s skin, it’s no accident. 

“I knew, was the thing,” Dean says, tracing patterns in Cas’ sweater. “I knew that there was nothing, no one, who killed Mom, knew that Dad was chasing leads was futile. But I couldn’t...It was the only thing keeping him going. How could I take that away from him? At least when he was hunting, he was sober. When he lost the trail…”

Dean clamps down on the rest of it, the part which is too painful, too close, even now. The nights John would stumble into the room, red-rimmed eyes searching for an enemy and, when they found none, lighting on his sons. The broken lamps, holes in cheap drywall. Sneaking out of hotel rooms in the middle of the night, unpaid bills following them like wolves snapping at their heels. Learning how to fill out credit card applications so that they wouldn’t get thrown out of the latest roach motel. Learning how to play pool and bluffing his way into bars so that he could hustle some cash to put food on the table. Making sure that Sam was always enrolled in school, shoving books underneath his shirt to take home to him. 

Some day, he thinks to himself, he’ll tell Cas. One day, he’ll shed five skins and be able to communicate like a normal person. But for now, he can do this. It feels like a victory. 

“I was so angry,” Dean confesses into Cas’ chest, his voice muffled. “But he was my dad and I wanted to make him happy. I thought, maybe, if he could just be happy then he would stop. He would just stop and we could be a family again…” Dean’s nose prickles, not from the cold. “It was stupid.”

“No, no it wasn’t. Dean, it wasn’t stupid. He was your father.” 

Dean laughs, unkindly. “No, the stupidest part is that I still think that. Like maybe, if I just do enough, he’ll finally be happy. He’ll finally be proud.” The words taste bitter in his mouth, tainted with impossibility. “When I was sixteen,” his voice falters, remembering that night, the blood and shouting, “I took Sam and I went to Bobby’s. Called Dad and told him that we weren’t coming back until he sobered up.” He’s left a few crucial parts out of the story, John’s hand shooting out, Sam stumbling backwards, Dean’s fury, John’s disdain...Those parts of the story are his and Sam’s, and Dean will guard those to his deathbed. 

He isn’t aware of the desperation in his hold until Castiel traces down Dean’s arm, to where his fingers clutch at the fabric of Cas’ sweater. Without realizing it, Dean tangles his fingers with Cas’, pulls their hands into the narrow space between their bodies. 

“I thought that would make an impression. I thought that maybe, I could finally get through to him. That maybe he would realize that he was about to lose the last family he had.” Dean curls around Cas, like he could crawl inside him if he only tried a little harder. “He just told me that he’d be better off without us. Less dead weight.” 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is a low husk, whispered into his hair. His fingers push against the back of Dean’s hand, pull it close to his chest. “Dean, you’re not...My god Dean, no one deserves that, but you...You’re extraordinary.” 

Fuck, doesn’t Cas know that people don’t say shit like that to each other? Doesn’t Castiel know that underneath it all, Dean’s just a stupid kid, one who fucked over his dad, who couldn’t get his act together enough to help his brother, who doesn’t deserve half of what he’s managed to lie, cheat, and steal his way into? “Shut up,” Dean murmurs. He pushes his face into Cas’ chest, takes refuge in the solidity of the flesh underneath him. “I’m just a fucking idiot with daddy issues.”

“So am I,” Cas says, without bitterness, “but I never raised a brother and sent him to college.” 

Though it’s against his nature, Dean lets it lie. He knows Cas well enough to know when to expect him to dig his heels, and this isn’t just a dig in your heels moment, this is Cas planting himself like a tree. So Dean moves on, says something that he’s only thought to himself and never voiced, not even to Sam. 

“The last decent thing Dad ever did,” he says, flicking his eyes up so that the outline of Cas’ jaw is in his sight, “was give me the Impala.” 

Cas’ hand, which had been running through his hair, pauses. Dean absolutely does not push into his hand to regain his touch. He absolutely does not do that. “He called me one day, after I’d just graduated high school. I invited him, for all the good it did. But uh, he gave me coordinates, told me that the Impala was there.

“I thought...” Dean swallows around the bright, bitter pain of it. “I thought that he was giving me a graduation present. Can you believe that?” Cas’ fingers run through his hair, down to the nape of his neck, five points of comfort. “I got on the bus, went to where he told me. Found the Impala.” Dean huffs out a sour laugh. “It was wrecked all to hell, front bashed in, sides crumpled. No idea how he managed to bust it up that bad and come out the other side, but that’s my old man for you. I had to call Bobby, get him to come with the truck and pick us up. Spent my whole summer fixing that car.” 

Cas pushes at the muscles at the base of Dean’s neck, his fingertips warm against the chilled skin. “Even after all of that...It was still the nicest thing that my dad ever did for me.” 

Cas doesn’t have anything to say to that, so the two of them just lie on the hood of a rusted junker, letting the cold descend around them, until Dean can’t remember a time when he could feel his fingertips. Above them, the stars glitter, tiny little ice chips poked into the blackness. 

“We should go inside,” Cas finally murmurs. When he speaks, his face is angled downwards, so that his lips brush against Dean’s forehead. The shiver which runs through Dean’s body has everything to do with that contact and nothing to do with the frigid temperature. “It’s cold.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, reluctantly. Once they leave this place, once they go back to the house, where rules and reality await, he won’t be able to do this anymore. Won’t be able to cling to Cas like he’s drowning and Cas is the last lifeboat going. Won’t be able to fool himself into thinking that he can actually have this. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, sharply, and it’s only then that Dean realizes that he’s shaking, little minute tremors rolling through his body like tiny electric shocks. “Dean, come on.” 

He sits up, pulling Dean with him. His frozen muscles screech in protest, and Dean bites back the groan which rises to his lips. He stumbles off the car, resents how lightly Cas seems to land on his feet. 

“Come on,” Cas repeats, his arm around Dean’s shoulders still. Dean lurches forward, as the prospect of warmth lures him into movement. 

“When we get inside,” Dean says, leaning into Cas’ side as they move through the maze of cars towards Bobby’s house, “you’re going to heat me up a slice of pie.” 

“Am I?” Cas asks, a thread of amusement running through his voice. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, his muscles loosening as he walks forward. “And you’re going to put ice-cream on it.”

“A wise choice, seeing as your core temperature has dropped by several degrees.”

“And then,” Dean says, for his _coup de grace_ , “you’re going to sit down and marathon Dr. Sexy with me.” 

“I draw the line there. Isn’t there some saccharine holiday special that we can watch instead?”

“Dr. Sexy has a holiday episode.” 

“Ah, the worst of both worlds. This truly is the darkest timeline.” 

Dean pauses, mostly because, for once in his life, Cas pulled off a pop culture reference. But then he gets caught up in looking at Cas, the way that the starlight hits his eyes and lances back, the white puffs of his breath escaping his mouth, the soft curl of his lips into a bemused smile. 

“No,” Dean murmurs, throwing his arm around Cas’ shoulders as they walk up the porch steps. “No it’s not.” 

 

\--

 

Ellen and Bobby have already gone to bed, or at least vacated the living room, when Dean and Cas return. Jo stirs in her nest on the couch, murmuring sleepily as Dean rearranges the blanket over her shoulders. Sam and Jess, deep in conversation, look up as Dean drops into Bobby’s armchair. 

“Everything all right?” Sam finally asks. 

Dean considers for a moment. He’s still raw and hurting, and his scars haven’t vanished by any stretch of the imagination. But he’s not three sheets to the wind, isn’t screaming and cursing at Dad or Sam, isn’t calling every single ex still in his phone and demanding to know where they went wrong. Plus, he can hear the distant ding of the microwave. 

“This doesn’t have ice-cream,” he says, when Cas hands him a reheated slice of pecan pie. 

“There was no ice-cream. Eat your pie and be quiet.” 

Sam and Jess watch this exchange with identical amused expressions on their faces (really, they’re the worst kind of old married couple and they’re not even married yet), before Jess lets loose an earth-shattering yawn. 

“We’re going to head home, all right? See you later this weekend?” Sam’s eyes flick to Cas and within a moment, he comes to a decision. “Cas, you’re welcome too, if you’re interested.” 

Cas blinks in surprise, his mouth falling open before he rearranges his expression. “Thank you for the invitation Sam, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.” 

Sam shrugs, then reaches out and claps Cas on the shoulder. To his credit, Cas only wobbles a little bit. Impressive. Sometimes getting hit the by Samsquatch is like getting hit by an eighteen-wheeler. “You wouldn’t be,” Sam says, ostensibly to Cas, but he looks more like he’s addressing Dean. His eyebrows waggle meaningfully. 

If he’s speaking in code, then Dean isn’t party to the cipher. “We’ll talk about it later,” Dean says, with his own significant look, because he’s not averse to the idea of Cas joining them for family dinner time, but he’s not sure why Sam feels the need to send Morse Code via eyebrows at him when he drops this idea. “Drive safe.” 

“You too,” Jess mumbles around another yawn. She waves at them before lurching to the door. She slams into one of Bobby’s pile of books, but it doesn't seem to phase her, even as she almost tumbles to the ground. Miraculously, she makes her way out of the house without breaking her neck. From a distance, the car door opens, and then closes. 

“She’s not driving, is she?” Cas asks, and the concern in his voice is so achingly genuine, that Dean has to laugh. 

 

\--

 

Sam texts him when he gets home and Dean stifles a yawn from where he’s stretched out on the couch, Jo having gone to bed an hour ago. It’s ten o’clock, and by all accounts he should be long gone from Bobby’s house, but he’s still splayed out on Bobby’s couch. Part of that is exhaustion--he’s been going strong since about eight this morning and he deserves a break damn it. The other part of it is Cas next to him, kindly acting as a pillow. 

This isn’t real, Dean has to keep reminding himself. None of it: the conversation in the lot earlier, the way that Cas can’t seem to stop touching him, his head resting on Cas’ thigh...None of this means anything. 

He wonders, sometimes, if Cas was telling the truth. _I don’t do relationships_. He thinks that he meant it ; Cas doesn’t seem the lying type. But there’s the niggling doubt in the back of his mind. Sometimes Cas will look at him, like he did earlier tonight, and his eyes will shine and his lips will part in a tiny, private smile that seems like it was manufactured just for him, and Dean will wonder. Because this--cuddling on top of car hoods, letting someone fall asleep on your lap, Cas’ hand moving from a casual resting spot on his shoulder to gently carding through Dean’s hair...None of these things are friendship things. He doesn’t do them with Charlie and he sure as hell wouldn’t do them with Benny. 

He wants to ask, if Cas meant it, and if he meant it, why. Why no relationships? He thinks that tonight, Cas would answer him. 

Dean doesn’t ask. Partly out of courtesy--if Cas hasn’t told him yet then it’s obviously for a reason--and also partly from self-preservation. Because, if the truth is that Cas does do relationships, he just doesn’t do relationships with Dean...Dean doesn’t think that he could survive that kind of knowledge. 

So he sits, and soaks up the illicit touch of Cas’ hand on his head, and lives someone else’s life. He doesn’t go home, doesn’t suggest that he and Cas stop watching what is really an excellent marathon of Great British Baking Show, because he doesn’t want this to end. Not yet. 

The repetitive motion of Cas’ hand through his hair, the soothing accents on the television, and the fullness of his stomach send Dean into a light doze. He dreams of Dad, the way that he was on good days, when he was all laughs and _Come here Dean, it’s time that you learned how to shoot a gun like a real man. Here Dean, you want to sit behind the wheel? See what it’s going to be like in a couple of years when you go to drive her around?_ Those were the good days, when John rose up out of his misery enough to remember that he had two sons. 

Dean smiles in his sleep, rolls over into something soft. His eyes flutter open and for a second he can’t remember where he is. Panic lurches through him, until he recognizes the upholstery of Bobby’s couch. He relaxes, only to freeze when he realizes that he’s not alone on the couch. 

Cas lays beside him. His body is contorted strangely, in a position that Dean knows is going to ache in the morning, but for the moment, he looks content. His arm is still slung around Dean, though it’s dropped from his head to his torso. Dean takes a second to just stare at him. In slumber, the severe lines of his face are softened and his mouth is slack and open. Dark eyelashes fan out on his cheek and as Dean watches, Cas snuffles in his sleep, mouth twitching before he relaxes again. 

In a minute, he’ll wake Cas up, maybe fix him a cup of coffee, so that they can both drive home. In a minute, Dean will slide away from the warmth of Cas’ body, lift off the weight of his arm around his torso. In a minute, Dean will tear his eyes away, content that he’s imprinted the memory of sleeping Cas to his brain. In a minute, Dean will step back into his life. 

But for now, just for this moment, Dean pretends that this could be his life, that he could have this, if only he were to reach out his hand and ask for it. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	10. you are unbreaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epiphany follows Christmas.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

After Thanksgiving, the holidays attack with a vengeance and a determination to take no prisoners. Dean wholeheartedly throws himself into the rush and bustle of the Christmas season. There’s a rush in the streams of lights and people, a thrill not found any other time of the year and he can’t help but get lost in the flow. It also helps to try and lose himself amid the brightness, to take away from everything else in his life. 

Ever since Thanksgiving, things have been...weird. Not bad weird, just...weird weird. 

Weird, like Cas joining him, Sam, and Jess for dinner on Sunday evening, like this was a normal thing. Weird, like Cas dropping down next to him on the couch, instead of into the loveseat, as is his wont. Weird, like the touches Cas keeps bestowing on him. A brush against his shoulder, Cas’ leg pressing against his, Cas’ shoulder bumping into him. Dean could justify them as accidents if they didn’t happen so frequently. 

Dean’s not complaining, but he does wish that he had some kind of instruction manual for what comes next. He’s flying blind and he can’t shake the feeling that there’s a mountain lurking behind the fog bank of Castiel’s actions. 

Cas himself offers no help, which is pretty par for the course, as far as Dean’s life goes. He initiates the touch--his ankle hooked around Dean’s, his knee pressed into Dean’s leg underneath the table--but he won’t give an explanation. Dean has to accept that Cas has full control of this dance, has had full control since the moment that he let Cas into the Impala that one night back in October. 

One Saturday afternoon, he packs Charlie into the car, over her vociferous protests, and takes her Christmas shopping. They fight soccer moms, disgruntled fathers, and snotty teenagers at Lawrence’s mall, while Dean ticks off his shopping list. 

“You do understand that there are online retailers, right?” Charlie asks, panting as she shoves her way through a crowd of grim old ladies. “That you could be doing all this shopping in your pajamas? Naked, if you wanted? While eating ice-cream?”

Dean pauses to look over his shoulder at her, and nearly gets steamrollered by a determined group of women, all of them sporting ‘Need to Speak to a Manager’ haircuts. “That’s a...weirdly specific picture you’ve painted. Spend a lot of time thinking about that?”

“It’s my nightmare, after I have too much tequila,” Charlie snarks back at him, which, ouch. “I’m just saying, there are easier ways of shopping than fighting the hoards of other idiots who were too stubborn to do their shopping online.”

“Quit whining,” Dean orders, ducking inside a preppy little shop. The chinos alone make him want to shrivel up and die on the inside, but it’s perfect for finding some of those damn polos that Sam’s so fond of these days. Next thing you know, Sam’s going to be spending his weekends at the country club, rather than the shooting range, and at that point, Dean’s definitely going to have to stage an intervention. 

“Whining would be me complaining without reason and I most definitely have a valid reason.” Exhausted, Charlie flops on a pile of poorly folded shirts. “The technology is our friend Dean. It’s here to make your life better, promise.” 

“Yeah, I know. But look, I just like...I like being able to see things. Touch them. I like to know what I’m getting, all right? I don’t like being surprised.” 

Charlie manages to be sympathetic for a whole thirty seconds, before her face fractures into hysterical laughter. “You are so...old!” she finally gasps out, muffling her snorts behind her hand. “Like, really, really old!”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters. The back of his neck burns, probably from the righteous glares that he’s getting from the J.Crew models browsing the shelves. “I just like doing things a certain way, is all.” 

Charlie curbs her laughter and manages to get herself back in some semblance of order. “Yeah, all right.” She takes a bag from him, and Dean wonders at her kindness, until she says, “Don’t want you to hurt your back, grandpa.” 

“Shut up,” Dean growls. He snatches some polos that look like they’ll stretch to fit over Jolly Green Giant shoulders and heads to the cash register. 

Later, he and Charlie sit in the food court, having wrestled the table away from a pair of surly teenagers. Dean pulls his list out of his pocket and endures the renewal of Charlie’s teasing ( _A list? Senility creeping in so much that you have to have a list?_ ) He’s gotten most of Sam’s stuff, he’s picked up Ellen’s gifts earlier, and he needs to stop by the liquor store to pick up Bobby’s Laphroaig. Charlie’s gift he did order online, much as it pained him, and he’s going in with Sam to get Jess the new office chair that she’s been ogling for weeks. For Benny, he got a new knife set, already at his house. He needs to stop by the sporting goods store to pick up the compound bow which Jo too casually mentioned several weeks ago. 

Yeah, Dean spoils the people in his life, but that’s what happens when you combine a decent salary with the inability to say ‘I love you’. 

Only one person remains on his list, their name followed by a series of question marks. Charlie dangles a piece of hibachi steak from her chopsticks and, once her mouth is full, Dean decides to ask. 

“Hey Charlie, if you were getting a present for Cas, what would you get him?”

Charlie pauses mid-chew. She blinks at him, before swallowing. “Um. Not that I don’t love being your go-to person, but why are you asking me? I’m not the person that spends every night with him.”

“Not every night,” Dean hurries to correct. “It’s only....” He lets that thought die an ignominious death, as he realizes that he might not see Cas every night, but it’s pretty damn close. “Anyway. I don’t know. What do you get a guy who likes everything?”

Because that’s really the problem--Dean could go into Barnes and Noble and pick out any random book, and Cas would like it. He could go into any department store, pick out a shirt or sweater, and Cas would like it. He could pick out a damn engraved pocket-watch and Cas would probably like it. The problem isn’t getting something that Cas would enjoy, the problem comes from getting Cas something that shows that Dean knows him well enough to make him happy. 

Charlie shrugs, because she is absolutely no help at all. “Gift card, maybe?” At Dean’s scowl, she raises her hands in surrender. “Look, I don’t know! I like the guy, sure, but I’m not qualified to be his personal shopper!” 

Dean sighs and moves his now soggy rice around the Styrofoam container. “Me either. I thought that maybe I could come with an idea while we were here, but so far, no dice.” He sighs and slurps his drink up through the straw. “Maybe I can get him the newest software upgrades so that he’ll be able to download the newest slang.” 

Charlie props her chin on her hand. The look on her face could best be described as a leer. “You realize that you only call him a robot when you’re uncomfortable?”

Dean has in fact, not realized this. Having it brought to his attention is unpleasant. “Not true.” The denial is more a reflex action than a conscious protest. “Maybe this conversation makes me uncomfortable, ever think about that?”

Charlie hums. Amazing how she gets that much doubt in one sound. “I think that you’re uncomfortable with any hint that you care as much as you do.” 

“And I think that if I wanted to visit a shrink then I would have paid for the privilege,” Dean grumbles, shoveling a heaping forkful of rice into his mouth. Guilt hits him almost immediately after: snapping at Charlie isn’t like snapping at Jo or Sam--it’s like kicking a snarky puppy, or a particularly determined sunbeam. There’s just something wrong about it. 

Thankfully, Charlie’s been friends with him for long enough that his tantrums don’t phase her. She thoughtfully chews her steak, and then speaks. “I don’t know Dean, I guess you just have to think about how well you know him, and decide from there.”

“Thanks for all the help,” Dean mutters, still feeling petulant. “He likes _everything_.” 

He might be exaggerating, but only by a little. Cas, it turns out, loves every period of history, from Ancient Greece to the Russian Revolution. Dean knows, he snuck a look at Cas’ bookshelf the other night, just to see if he could gather gift ideas. Cas also appreciates music, though nothing good--he favors Beethoven and Chopin, and Dean wouldn’t have the faintest clue of where to start with that. Cas even has a weird thing about bees--Dean caught him planning out a backyard garden, complete with flowers meant to attract honeybees. He’d only been able to talk Cas out of building a hive by reminding him of zoning ordinances. 

The hell kind of Christmas gift can you get someone like that? 

Certainly nothing that can be found at Westridge Shopping Center. After another few hours, and another run-in with a determined granny, and Dean’s had enough. He and Charlie leave the shopping mall and head to their last stop. 

The Christmas tree lot is crowded with families. He and Charlie have to dodge small children around every turn, and the late afternoon chill is starting to bite. Dean loves every second of it. He takes a deep breath, lets his lungs fill with the scent of evergreen. 

Since the first Christmas he spent in his townhouse, Dean’s always gotten a real tree. There was something about the ownership of a real tree, the domesticity of it. He loves the way that his whole house eventually smells of pine, the feel of needles as he decorates. Sam, with his soulless, pre-lit, plastic monstrosity, mocks him mercilessly, but Dean refuses to change. 

“Hey Dean,” Charlie says, tucking her hands into her pockets as she and Dean pace the lot, looking for that one, perfect, tree. “If I asked you a question, you’d answer it, right?”

“Just did,” Dean answers, the big brother instinct still strong after all these years. 

“Ha ha. No, but seriously.”

Dean shifts, uncomfortable with the direction this seems to be taking. “Wouldn’t lie to you,” he finally decides, giving himself a comfortable, safe escape route.

Charlie nods, inhales, and turns to face him. “You’d tell me, if there was anything going on between you and Castiel, right?”

The words act like a slap, and it must show on Dean’s face. Charlie looks regretful, but she doesn’t apologize. “It’s just, you two have been hanging out so much recently, and I, I’ve seen the way that you look at him…” 

Dean swallows. Even though he knew it was coming, he is still pathetically unprepared to have this conversation. Ever since Thanksgiving, he’s been prepared for the ambush from Sam. He never would have suspected Charlie. 

Maybe that was the point. 

“If there was anything going on,” he begins, and then has to laugh softly. “He,” Dean puts finger quotes around the words, “‘doesn’t want a relationship’.” It hurts, more than he thought it would, to say it aloud. 

Charlie purses her lips. “Doesn’t want a relationship, like he wants to be friends with benefits? Or doesn’t want a relationship, like, he just wants to be friends? Or doesn’t want a relationship like, he was hurt badly before and now he doesn’t dare to ever love anyone again?”

Dean shakes his head, overwhelmed for a moment. Friends with benefits? Doesn’t dare to ever love? He’s a simple man, takes things at face value. He’s not made for intricacies and half-truths. “Doesn’t want a relationship, like he doesn’t want to date someone. And,” Dean remembers, a hot twist of regret curling in his gut, “he did say that he doesn’t screw around with people that he works with.” 

Charlie barks out a laugh, before she catches Dean’s expression and stops herself. She offers a rueful smile at him, apologetic. “Well, you know that’s a lie.” 

Dean looks at her sharply. Charlie deflates under his scrutiny, but only for a minute. “Come on dude, you’ve been there longer than I have. Don’t tell me that you didn’t think that there was something going on between him and Masters.”

Dean doesn’t have verbal confirmation, but he’s seen the pictures, seen the way that Cas and Meg interact. More than that, he remembers the whispers that followed the two, back when first started working at Lawrence High. There’s no place like a high school teacher’s lounge to foster rumors, and Cas and Meg had started more than their fair share. 

“Not to mention that he and Roche have always been a little too close, if you catch my drift,” Charlie adds, slanting her eyes over at Dean to see his reaction. 

There’s pictures of that too. 

“Why the sudden interest?” Dean asks. He’s learned a few things from Sam’s lawyering: when in doubt, deflect with a question. 

Charlie, however, isn’t easily dissuaded. “I just think, that if you really want to, you should go for it.”

Dean scoffs. The idea of _‘going for it’_ has never been big with him. He’s not the Winchester that gets what he wants. That would be Sam, he of the perfect house, perfect fiancee, and soon to be perfect life. Not that Dean resents it, far from it. He spent most of his life ensuring Sam’s happiness, but it does mean that most times, he comes up holding the short end of the stick. Normally he doesn’t mind, but this time, this time stings. 

“I’m not going to ‘go for it’,” he says, again with the finger quotes. Charlie opens her mouth, ready with another question, and Dean loves her, he really does, but he can’t deal with it. “He’s my best friend,” he says, stunned by the rightness of the sentiment. Until he’d said it aloud, he hadn’t known that it was the truth. “I don’t want to fuck that up. Not for anything.” 

He should be prepared for the hug, but it still catches him by surprise, the strength of Charlie’s arms as she squeezes his middle. “He’ll come around,” she says into his chest, and more than anything, Dean wishes that were true. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to kill her optimism, because God knows there’s little enough of it left in the world, but what she says next knocks him back on his heels. 

Charlie looks up at him, her sharp chin digging into his sternum, even through his jacket. “Don’t worry,” she says, smiling like she knows the best kind of secret, “he looks at you too.”

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Monday comes along and Dean is no closer to a solution for any of his problems than he was on Saturday. The good news is that at least his tree is up and partially decorated. He takes a deep whiff of evergreen as he walks past it in the mornings, and the scent seems to cling to his shirt all the way through lunch. 

“So,” Dean says, plunking himself down at one of Benny’s tables, “answer me this.” Benny looks suspicious. Good move for him, but he hasn’t left the room, which is a bad move for him. “If you were going to get a gift for Castiel, what would you get him?”

“A new coat,” Benny says automatically, which, even though it is a good suggestion, doesn’t actually help Dean. He says so, and Benny rolls his eyes. “Well then brother, why bother asking if you’re not going to take my advice?” 

“Because your advice is lame,” Dean says, snatching a spare cookie from Benny’s desk. He thinks that maybe these are from Benny’s students, and as such, need to be graded, but surely Benny won’t miss one. 

The eagle-eyed glare sent in his direction says otherwise, but Dean just smiles (close-lipped, so as to not give away the evidence). “I already asked Charlie, and she just told me to think about what he likes.” 

“Good advice,” Benny says. He taps the tips of his index fingers together. “Shame that you didn’t take it.” 

“You’ve talked to Cas,” Dean says, finger pointing in accusation. “What doesn’t he like?” 

Benny shrugs. “Hypocrisy. Rudeness. Avocadoes. Corona.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Knew all of that already. Also, try finding someone who will admit to liking hypocrisy, and then you’ve got something interesting.” He takes another cookie, boldly this time. “I want to get him something that no one else would think to get him.” 

Benny smiles, eyes twinkling wickedly. “Why not a big kiss? Can’t be that many people offering one of those.” 

Dean glares, though he can’t deny he came here in part to talk about just this. “You been talking to Charlie?” 

Benny shrugs, turning his attention to some of the dishes left out by lazy students. “Your names might have come up in several conversations.”

“Impossible to believe that you two don’t have anything more interesting to talk about.” 

“Well, you want to be off the table for gossip, I suggest that you stop eye-fucking your co-worker.” 

“The hell?” Shame and anger floods through Dean. The sugar in his mouth turns bitter. “The hell man?” Benny shrugs, choosing instead of stare at Dean. The man can really hold a stare when he feels like it, to the point that Dean deflates. He’s left empty and can only offer, “Benny, you know that gossiping is really beneath you. 

“Brother,” Benny says with a low laugh, “you know that ain’t true.” 

Benny is the worst kind of gossip, with an almost supernatural ability to root out the truth of a rumor. If there was a secret escape hatch somewhere in the school, then Dean has no doubt that Benny would learn of it long before anyone else even had the inclination to look. “Whole school’s buzzing about the two of you,” Benny adds nonchalantly. 

For all that he wishes it weren’t true, Dean isn’t surprised. High school teachers have little to do other than teach their students, grade papers, plan lessons, and talk about anything and everything under the sun. “Knew it was getting bad when Masters stopped me in the copy room,” Dean mentions. He doesn’t miss the sudden sharpening of Benny’s interest. 

“Now that is intriguing.” He taps his lips with a single finger. “Very, very interesting.” 

“They used to be a thing, right?” Dean knows that he isn’t fooling anyone, least of all Benny, but thankfully, Benny’s love of gossip is stronger than his love of mocking Dean. 

“Rumor on the street says that it’s so.” Benny’s too clever eyes scrape over Dean. “Real question is, why are you asking me this, instead of our Mr. Milton?”

“Cas seem like the real forthcoming type to you?” Dean demands. 

“I guess, the better question is, why do you care whose bed Castiel’s boots have been under?” 

Benny always was a smart son of a bitch, even if he does happen to quote the worst kind of country songs. Dean’s lip curls upwards in a snarl, but Benny ignores him and waits patiently. He’s good like that. 

“Guy can’t wonder that about his friends?”

Benny’s tongue clicks against his teeth as his breath whistles out in a long, disappointed sigh. “You ever wondered that about me?”

“No.” Dean’s face automatically twists in vague horror. “No offense, but I try not to imagine you full-frontal.” 

It’s a small comfort that Benny looks just as discomfited as Dean. “My point exactly,” Benny says. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but this conversation aside, I don’t spend that much time wondering who you’re bumping uglies with. So, why are you so interested in Castiel’s patchwork history?” 

Dean doesn’t bother to bluff or bluster. Benny knows him too well for that to work, and he won’t insult him by pretending otherwise. “You know why,” he says instead, contenting himself with digging his fingernail into an imperfection of the table. 

Benny stares back at Dean, face uncommonly serious. “It’s your life, you do what you want to. But it ain’t like you, to dance to someone else’s beat.”

Benny says it like he’s disappointed in Dean. He might not be wrong. Dean already accepted the fact that Castiel holds all the cards--hell, Castiel manufactured the damn deck. And yeah, normally that would bother him, but there’s something liberating about, for once, not knowing the steps or what comes next. 

When Dean leads, it all ends, depressingly, unceasingly, the same. He smiles, he flirts, they fall. A good time is had by all, up until the point that a bad time is had by all. Dean’s a sprinter who falters when it comes to endurance. He’s a gymnast who can make it through the routine, but he can’t quite stick the landing. Not to mix too many metaphors, but, just for once, he thinks that maybe, he’d like to stick around to the closing credits, see what happens the morning after the morning after. 

Of course, what with Cas’ proclamation, none of that is going to happen, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if? 

Dean voices exactly none of these thoughts to Benny. Instead, he snorts and leans back in his chair. His boots land on top of the table, in violation of about ten health codes. 

“Speaking of boots and beds, how’s Andrea?” 

The vivid crimson blush splashing over Benny’s cheeks is truly a thing of beauty.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean truly can’t believe it. 

In retrospect, he shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s been a long day and he’s weak. So when he walks into Cas’ house on the afternoon of December 16th and finds nary a Christmas decoration, he can’t help but exclaim, “Cas, you Grinch.” 

Cas blinks at him, but Dean isn’t buying his _Just a robot, nothing to see here ma’am_ act--The Grinch is a literary reference, not a pop culture reference. Cas knows full and well the point that Dean is trying to make. 

“Dean, I assure you, I do not want to have this talk about holiday traditions.” 

And now that Dean’s gotten over his shock, he realizes that duh, if Thanksgiving is a touchy topic, then Christmas is bound to be about twenty times more so. Thanksgiving is only a day. Christmas is a whole goddamn month of love and family shoved down your throat. 

“All right, all right,” Dean says, shouldering past Cas to set his bag down on the table. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

It’s one of those things that comes out automatically, something that he’d say to Sam without thinking twice. When he says it to Cas, however, it comes out heavily laden with innuendo. Dean swallows, licking at dry lips as he carefully avoids meeting Cas’ eyes. 

“I’m just saying,” he continues, acting like he didn’t catch the sudden jerk of Cas’ hands, or hear the sharp stutter of his breath, “it wouldn’t kill you to put up some lights or something.” 

“It very well might,” Cas argues, sounding relieved to find refuge in their bickering. “Last year my next door neighbor fell off his ladder trying to put lights on his roof. Broke his arm.”

“But didn’t die,” Dean says, pushing past Cas and opening up his fridge. Cas only stocks weird beers from local microbreweries and Dean shuffles around the bottles until he finds one that he thinks he’ll like. 

“Could have.” Cas leans over him, reaching over Dean’s shoulder to grab his own beer. Dean freezes at the feeling, wills the flutter of delight in his stomach to disappear. Cas pulls away. Dean is relieved. Dean is heartbroken. “Few inches here, few inches there.” With a flourish, Cas twists the lid off his beer. Dean does not follow the line of his throat as he swallows, does not mark how his eyelashes fall on his cheek as he closes his eyes in bliss. Cas opens his eyes, smiles hesitantly when he sees Dean watching him. 

Cas’ smile always sneaks across his face. Half the time, Dean would swear that it takes Cas by surprise, like now, when half of Cas’ face pulls upward in a smile that on anyone else, would look awkward and forced. On Cas, it just manages to look endearing. 

Good God, he’s got it bad. 

“Anyway, I learned my lesson. Christmas decorations are to be feared.” 

Dean blinks, takes a sip of his beer. Miscalculates and ends up dribbling half of it down his chin. “Maybe it’s just because you’re a baby,” he retorts, wiping at his chin. Cas’ forehead furrows in the frown which means he’s not sure whether or not Dean’s mocking him. Dean holds his face as steady as possible, as he says, “Baby in a trenchcoat.” 

Cas’ mouth drops open in affronted shock, and Dean would be worried, but there’s a glimmer of wickedness in Cas’ eyes. Dean finds out the reason why, as Cas flicks the condensation from his bottle straight into his face. Dean flinches as the water hits him and oh it is on. 

It would look stupid to anyone else, and it is stupid, two grown men chasing each other around the kitchen, flicking water at each other from their fingertips. Cas’ hand shoots out, quick as a viper, and pinches Dean’s arm, not enough to hurt, but enough to taunt. 

“Oh, you little son of a bitch,” Dean breathes, but he’s grinning, because this is awesome, like messing with Sammy, except Cas’ face doesn’t get that pinched, disapproving look like Sam does. Cas is grinning, smile wide and gummy, as he dodges Dean’s outstretched hand. He’s fast, but Dean has all the experience of an older brother on his side. 

He anticipates Cas’ dodge and grabs his sleeve. Cas is laughing, even as Dean digs his knuckle into his scalp. Cas’ hair is soft against his hand. His hands bat at Dean. Cas twists away, but Dean steps forward to block any escape. 

His chest brushes against Cas. It hits Dean then, just how close he and Cas are to each other. He’s close enough to see the faint pink flush to Cas’ cheeks, to hear his breath even out from happy little pants, to something that’s deeper, raspier. This close up, Cas’ eyes are so blue as to be unreal, and they’re staring at Dean. 

This close, it would be so easy, so damn easy, for Dean to lean down. Cas’ lips are still parted, still smiling, though he seems frozen. It would be so damn easy. Dean’s heart thuds wildly in his chest, in elation or warning. Cas’ eyes flick down and, in a Pavlovian reaction, Dean’s tongue swipes over his lower lip. 

Cas breaks away. Dean mourns the loss and heat of him, but he notices that Cas’ mask isn’t as flawless as it usually is. There’s cracks there, effort where there used to be none. Dean wants to sink his fingernails into those cracks and pull, but some deeper instinct in him warns _Not Yet_. 

He lets Cas step away. The moment between them lasts for another second, before it fades away, a wisp in the wind. 

\--

 

The bright jingle of Parks and Rec plays in Cas’ living room and Dean glances over at Cas. Despite his original snobbery, Cas is enamored with the show, and each time he hears Cas’ low chuckle, heat simmers in the pit of Dean’s stomach. 

“So Cas.” Cas’ head lolls to the side, lazy and comfortable. “Any plans for Christmas?”

Almost immediately, Cas’ posture changes, becomes stiff. His jaw sets and his eyes change into hard little chips. Even though he knows it’s not directed at him, Dean still winces. 

“The family’s gathering at Michael’s house.” Castiel’s eyes are fixed on a point straight ahead, though Dean doubts that he can see anything. His jaw is tight with tension and Dean aches to press his fingers into the bolt, to soothe away the anger, brush his lips over the clench of his jaw. 

He does none of these things. Instead, he sits at the opposite end of the couch and watches Cas implode. It’s a quiet, private thing, with all the agony of a star dying. “He expects everyone to put in an appearance. There’ll be a dinner.” 

Buoyed up by nothing more than bravado, Dean shifts so that he’s facing Cas. “Radical idea I’m about to throw out, but why don’t you just...not go?” 

Cas blinks, features twisting in confusion, before he turns to look at Dean. Dean senses danger, but he’s in too deep to back out now, so he continues. “I mean, you had fun over Thanksgiving, right?” The memory of Thanksgiving is emblazoned upon every atom of Dean’s memory: Cas’ body pressed against his, Dean curled up into him like Cas was his last comfort. Cas’ face, gone slack and easy with sleep, the vivid lines from the couch pressed into the side of his face. The house had been dark then, too dim to see reliably, but Dean had thought that there was a hint of regret on Cas’ face as he folded himself back up into a seated position. “So…” Cas still hasn’t said anything, and it makes the next part awkward as hell to get out, but Dean isn’t a quitter, so he finishes, “Why don’t you come to Christmas too?”

The invitation is out there and it can’t be taken back, and for Dean, it’s a big fucking deal. Lisa never came to Christmas--she always visited her parents over the holiday and Dean never once made the offer. 

Which is why, when Castiel swallows once, licks at his lips and then says, “No, thank you,” Dean feels like he’s been sucker punched. 

“Yeah, all right,” he says, curling back into himself, retreating back to his side of the couch. “No problem.”

“Dean,” Cas says, and it’s a little too late for him to act concerned, so Dean ignores the plea in his voice. “It’s not that I don’t want…” 

“It’s fine Cas. Don’t worry about it.” That tone is usually enough to make Sam drop the subject, but Cas hasn’t had twenty-four years to read the swirls and eddies of Dean’s moods, so he presses on. 

“I have an obligation--”

“You don’t owe them shit!” Dean’s temper, never the most sedate of beasts, snaps its lead. He whirls on Cas, the gentle sounds of the television lost in his irritation. “Seriously, you’d rather spend your Christmas, with them? Miserable?”

“Just because I would rather spend my day elsewhere doesn’t mean that I don’t need to fulfill my responsibilities!”

Dean sneers. Stupid, to start a fight over this, but he remembers watching Cas on the news, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in front of him like he was at church. Even though it was just a blip on the screen, Dean had felt, acutely, the depths of misery in his posture. He knows that he hadn’t been imagining Cas’ happiness over Thanksgiving, there was no way that Cas could fake that. So why, in God’s name, would Cas prefer to spend time with his family?

Cas seems caught between rage and pleading, the two expressions chasing themselves across his face. His lip curls in disdain as his fingers curl against the upholstery of the couch. Dean wants to break those fingers. He wants to wrap those fingers in his hands, kiss them, and promise to never let go. 

Sam’s voice echoes in Dean’s head: You’re not being fair Dean, listen to his side, and Dean makes an effort to wipe the contempt from his voice. “Look, Cas, I understand feeling like you owe your family something, god knows, I understand that. But you have to look out for yourself too, you know?”

Normally, the four year age gap between the two of them doesn’t even register to Dean, but sometimes, like now, Cas looks damn near ancient. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the sadness of his eyes. 

“I can’t,’ Cas says, voice heavy with defeat, and Dean wants to be understanding, he really does, but God, this is Cas. Castiel, who takes no shit, who almost threw hands with the Belmont coach when he disrespected Dean. For him to sound like he lost the battle without ever firing a shot? It makes Dean’s skin crawl. 

“Why the fuck not?” Dean asks. His temper drowns the annoying Sam-voice of Dean, you’re not being fair. Dean revels in it. “I mean, what, do you owe them money or something?”

Dean meant it as an improbable joke, but his worldview shifts once he catches the stricken look on Cas’ face. “Holy shit,” Dean breathes, blinking in astonishment. “Do you really owe them money?”

Cas draws back, his face shuttering. “It’s not quite as uncomplicated as that,” he says stiffly. His fingers lace together over his knees. 

Dean’s temper fizzles, leaving him feeling stupid and hollow. Castiel is as far away from him on the couch as it’s possible to be, and Dean’s chest aches like it was miles instead of inches. 

“Cas,” he says, voice rough, because hell, he didn’t want this. Cas distant and cold, his shoulders curling into his chest like he’s protecting himself from the blows of an unseen foe. Except, in this case, the foe isn’t unknown: Dean sits less than a foot away from him on the couch. “Cas,” he says again, like that could solve anything. 

Without thinking, he reaches out. His hand lands on the back of Castiel’s neck. Dean’s thumb strokes over the wispy hair at the base of Cas’ skull, his fingertips pressing into the tense muscles of his neck. A faint tremor runs through Cas, discernible only through touch. It takes one second, maybe two, and then Cas deflates, slowly, until his forehead rests on his clasped knuckles. 

Cas sighs and Dean’s thumb continues its back and forth motion over his neck. He wants more, with the helpless craving of an addict, but that door is closed to him. 

“I owe Michael everything.” Cas speaks into his hands and Dean has to strain to hear his muffled voice. “After dad left...Uncle Charles’ name was on the papers, but he was old, and it was Michael who took care of us, who made sure that we had a home. It was Michael who gave me the money to go to school.” 

Cas’ gaze remains fixed on the floor. His knuckles are pressed so forcefully into his forehead that Dean would be surprised if there weren’t dents in the bone. Despite the soul-baring, Dean knows: there’s something else. First Anna, now Michael--There’s a whole minefield which Cas navigates through whenever he mentions his family. 

“All right,” Dean says, thinking back-- _What would Sam do? How would Sam handle this_? With an effort, he keeps his voice soft and non-confrontational. “A lot of families give their kids money to go to college. It doesn’t mean that the kids owe the family the rest of their lives.” 

Cas laughs, bitter and brittle. “I never had to work a job the entire time I was in school. My school, my apartment, my food--Michael took care of everything.” Dean allows himself a vicious spark of envy. Memories of falling asleep in class, exhausted from the previous night’s shift at the Roadhouse, return to haunt him with a vengeance, and with effort, Dean puts them aside. It’s not Cas’ fault that his family has money, especially if, as Dean suspects, the money comes with enough attached strings to field a section in the orchestra. 

“All he asked was that I take a Business major, so that I could look after the company.” Dean blinks and somehow, Castiel must be able to read the question in the press of his fingers, because he says without prompting, “Milton Enterprises. Michael runs it now, in between his political career, but the intention was always to let someone else take over the daily minutiae so that he could focus on his aspirations.” 

Dean’s heard the name Milton Enterprises before, in passing. He thinks there might be a building downtown with that name plastered across the roof. 

“And I lied to him.” Cas finally looks up from the ground to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean’s hand tightens around Cas’ neck, an involuntary response to the bleak, devastating landscape of his eyes. “Dean, I lied to him and told him that I had every intention of pursuing an M.B.A. and overseeing the company. It wasn’t until,” Cas’ breath hitches, “it wasn’t until my graduation that he found out the truth.” 

“Fuck Cas.” Dean has to chuckle, his thumb digging into the soft spot at the base of Castiel’s skull. “That’s ballsy as hell.” 

For the first time since Dean raised his voice at him, Castiel’s face loses its beaten look. Instead, he returns to his default expression when dealing with Dean. A furrow of confusion knits between his brows as his eyes go from wide to squinted. Like he’s half convinced that he can’t trust them. 

“I lied to the person who had taken me in and supported me through my teenage years. I essentially committed fraud, just because I wanted to pursue my own, selfish interests.” 

“I hear you,” Dean says, and he can’t stop the quick grin from dashing across his face, because hell, who would have thought that Castiel Milton was a rebel at heart? “And I ain’t saying that it’s right, but fuck Cas, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit proud.” 

“You shouldn’t be,” Cas says flatly. “It was a reprehensible thing to do. I rebelled, and even after all that, Michael didn’t cut me off. He still paid for me to go get my Master’s, and then my Doctorate. And then, even after everything, when I told him that I had no intention of teaching at the collegiate level, that I just wanted to be as close to normal as I could be...He never turned me away. All he asks is that I join the family functions. After everything that I did...I owe so much more than I can ever repay.” 

Responses flood Dean’s tongue, so many that he can’t think of what to say first. That Mayor Michael Milton doesn’t look like the type of man to cancel a debt for the sake of familial bonds. That nothing in this life is ever free and that eventually, every deal comes due. That Cas isn’t a selfish person for wanting to live his own life. That he can tell there’s still something Cas is holding back, something too close to the heart to say aloud. 

But none of that will help Castiel.

Instead, Dean pulls, gentle but insistent pressure on the back of Castiel’s neck. Cas resists, of course he does, because he’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but here, Dean can match him. He keeps it from a demand, asking, not telling, what would Sam do, and eventually, Cas follows. 

“Dean, don’t, this is...this is ridiculous…” Even though he protests, Cas doesn’t fight him as Dean pulls, his hands soft on Cas’ shoulders, until his best friend lays curled up on his side. He doesn’t lose his stiff posture or the pinched look on his face, but Dean figures baby steps. 

He runs a soothing hand over Cas’s shoulders, ignoring the guilty twist in his stomach that asks him how much of this is for Cas and how much of this is for his own benefit. Dean pushes it away, focuses on keeping his touch light and well within the bounds of propriety. He falls into old habits, remembering how he used to lull Sam to sleep after a nightmare.

“I’m not a child.” Cas’ voice is sour, though Dean notes that he doesn’t try and move. 

His thumb brushes its way across the bolt of Castiel’s jaw. Dean jerks his hand away, the whorls of his fingertips still tingling with the memory of the stray bit of stubble Cas missed this morning. “I never said you were.” If Cas catches the wobble in Dean’s voice then he’s kind enough to not mention it. “Now shut up.” 

An unhappy noise rumbles somewhere from the vicinity of Cas’s chest. “I thank you for your concern, but it’s unnecessary--” Dean yanks on Cas’ hair, hard enough that Cas hisses and shoots him an offended glare. “What the hell--”

“You’re being dumb,” Dean says. His voice is calm, a glorious deception. He feels like magma boiling just beneath the earth’s surface, waiting for an eruption. Cas props himself up on his elbow, looking more than a little pissed off, and Dean rushes to explain. 

“You’re not the only one who feels like they let their family down.” Dean stares straight ahead at the weird, abstract painting that Cas thought would look good over the television. “All right? I know that it blows and lying is a pretty shitty thing but…” 

Dean’s stomach trips, gets back up again, only to hurtle down once more. His teeth punish his lower lip, long past the point of pain. 

“But?” Cas asks, twisting so that he can look Dean in the eyes. 

If Dean said ‘But nothing’, then Cas would accept it. He would shrug, probably sit up straight, and rattle off a fact about the migratory habits of albatrosses, just to break the tension. If Dean rolled his eyes and said something snarky, then Cas would respond likewise, and they’d part the night on slightly uneasy terms, but nothing would change. But Cas looks at him like he really wants to know what Dean has to say, like what comes out of Dean’s mouth actually matters. 

“But you’re a good person,” comes out in a rush, like the words were competing to be the first out of Dean’s mouth. “No, shut up, damn it,” because a spark has been relit in Cas’ eyes, one that bodes no good for Dean, “don’t be an ass. You’re a good person and yeah, all right, you lied your way into a Doctorate, which is still badass, I don’t care what you say and…” Dean shrugs. “I guess, from my way of thinking, if you lied then you must have had a good reason to do it.” Dean swallows, his father’s words echoing in his skull. “Look, we all let down our families at some point yeah? You just managed to do it impressively.” 

For the first time since Dean brought up Christmas, Cas’ posture relaxes. He slips back into the nerdy, curious, asshole, putting away the cold, guilty stranger. Much as he’s glad for it, Dean can’t let himself relax--forget playing his cards close to his chest, Dean just showed Cas his whole hand and let him call the play. 

“Dean,” Cas says, rolling over onto his back. The couch is too short for him; his legs dangle off the arm. The hilarity of that is lost when Cas’ eyes travel over Dean’s face, like he’s trying to memorize every flaw, every eyelash. Cas smiles, going cross-eyed from viewing the world upside-down. That smile sends Dean’s world spiraling into a place that he’s not sure he’ll recover from. 

“You really are extraordinary,” Cas says, like a revelation, like an epiphany, like watching the sun rise after staying up all night. 

Heat prickles across the back of Dean’s neck, over to his cheeks. There’s a revolution brewing underneath his skin, his synapses getting all sorts of ideas of their own. They want to reach out, run through Cas’ hair, down to his face like a river. They want to pool in the dip just underneath his lower lip, rest in the hollow of his clavicle. Dean draws in a shaky breath, sucking in oxygen like a defense. 

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, fist clenching. There’s nothing to fight here, nothing except for his own stupidity and weakness. 

Cas’ face is soft in confusion, the lines blurring until Dean isn’t sure what he’s seeing. “All right,” Cas finally says, lingering on the last syllable. 

Silence descends upon the living room like a living, breathing, entity. Neither of them moves, even though Dean’s skin urges him to go, to touch, to caress. It should be illegal, Cas laid out the couch, his head inches away from being in Dean’s lap. Like this, it’s too easy to pretend they’re people who cuddle up on the couch every evening and marathon their favorite shows. Part of Dean is empty, a place he never knew existed aching. 

“I truly wish that I could spend the day with you,” Cas mutters. Dean dares to look at him. Cas’ eyes are closed. Dean would say that he looks peaceful, but for the faint lines creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes. “I...there’s no joy to be had with my family Dean, only obligations and guilt. I…” Cas opens his eyes and inhales. “After everything, I know that it’s no more than I deserve, but I can’t help but wishing that it wasn’t so.” 

Dean’s fingers brush against the tips of Cas’ hair, soft enough to go unnoticed. He hates that this is what his life has become, stolen touches to stave off the starvation. It’s an awful way to live, but it’s better than the alternatives. 

“Well, if you need a place to run away to, you know where I’ll be.” 

He means the words to be light-hearted, but they come out with a sense of finality. 

Cas sits up, twisting so that he faces Dean. The space between them is thick with words unsaid. In the liquid depths of Cas’ eyes exists a book, written in a language that Dean can’t hope to understand. He’s drowning, has been drowning since October. The only thing that could save him--Dean’s hand moves, slowly, through the water and words smothering him. Cas’ eyes flick to his hand and Dean’s hand freezes, before falling, defeated by the inevitability of gravity and his own personality. 

Castiel blinks, twice, gets up from the couch and walks into the kitchen. Cold in his absence, Dean watches him leave, and says nothing. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Sam strikes over the weekend. 

Cas hasn’t come to this dinner, claiming that his final isn’t ready yet. Dean accepts the excuse and doesn’t push. His stomach twists when he thinks about Cas, like having a bad burrito and Christmas morning, all wrapped up into one horrible, exhilarating emotion. Demonstrating his psychic ability, Sam doesn’t push. 

Sam might be a mind-reader, but Dean isn’t a slouch in the department either. He knows that Sam has something on his mind, knows that it’s most likely something that he doesn’t want to hear. He does his best to avoid being alone with Sam, clinging to Jess like a particularly desperate leech. She sends him perplexed, bordering on annoyed, looks, but doesn’t say anything aloud. Eventually, however, she manages to give Dean the slip, and that’s when Sam strikes. 

It’s ridiculous to watch a 6’4” man try and sneak into his own kitchen, but that’s the farce that Dean has to put up with, as he leans against the counter. He takes a sip of his beer, weighing the desire to run away from this Talk against the desire to mock Sam. 

“All right there, Lady Godiva, stop beating around the bush.” Dean’s an older brother and that will always win out in the end. “You’ve had this look on you all night. Now, did you want to talk, or did you need me to run to the store and get you some more tampons?” 

Sam’s expression sets itself into one of his best bitchfaces, which is much better than the funereal face he was previously sporting. Dean is intimately acquainted with bitchface, feels safer around that than awkward compassion. 

“Come on Sam,” Dean snaps, when Sam still hangs at the opposite side of the kitchen. “Growing old here--”

“Are you and Cas together?”

The only reason that Dean doesn’t spit his beer across the kitchen is because he’s more sophisticated than that. Also, he’d already swallowed. As it is, a strange, _ack ack ack_ noise originates in his throat, only to become strangled halfway between his nose and mouth. Must be the lawyer in Sam, this unerring instinct to go straight to the heart of any matter. 

“We’re friends, Sammy. You had them in Stanford, I know you did. Can’t just rely on your diary to hear all of your thoughts, can you?” 

Sam purses his lips, like an less attractive version of Dean’s ‘Blue Steel’. He doesn’t say _cut the bullshit Dean_ , mostly because he doesn’t have to. It’s written all over his disapproving Sam face. Dean drops his eyes, and flicks his thumbnail over the fraying label of the beer, gone soggy with condensation. He forces a smile wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. 

Sam looks unconvinced, which makes sense, seeing as Dean is unconvincing. “It’s fine, all right?” Dean mutters, ripping the label off the bottle in jagged scraps. “He and I...we’re fine.” 

Sam’s lips are still pursed, but this time there’s something distressingly like pity in his eyes. Dean focuses his attention on the bottle in his hands, his nail scratching at the glue. Sam’s only trying to help, he’s asking because he cares. 

“All right,” Sam finally says, “now, just say that like you mean it.” 

Dean’s resolve to not be an asshole starts to crumble, the soggy paper tearing apart in his hands. “What do you want me to say?” Dean bites down on his lower lip, teeth sinking into the already inflamed flesh. 

Pity or compassion? The line between the two is so thin and Dean isn’t well-versed enough in the nuances of emotion to always tell the difference. “I just...these past few weeks, you’ve been happier, but also…” Sam has the Winchester curse, and, in critical moments, words fail him just as they do Dean. He shrugs, helplessly. “And I know that it’s because of Cas.” 

Dean shrugs, wincing as his ragged nail catches on the edge of the glass. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, dropping the damp paper onto the counter. Sam opens his mouth and Dean speaks first, louder, stopping any protest that Sam could make. “Look, what Cas and I are or aren’t...it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, please.” 

Sam closes his mouth, considers, then speaks because he never did know when to stop. “You act different around him,” he says, carefully, like this is explosive news. 

Dean scoffs. “Thanks for the big reveal.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Stop being a jerk. I mean, you act different around Cas than you did Lisa.” Despite himself, Dean’s interest sharpens and Sam, the rat bastard, notices. “With Lisa, you always acted like....like she was visiting. You know, like you never expected her to stick around. It’s...it’s different with Cas. You act like he’s always been here.” 

The unsaid _You act like you want him to stay_ hangs heavy in the air, a sword poised over Dean’s head. When it falls it’ll split him in half. 

“Profound,” Dean finally snarks. He leans against the counter and puts his hands to either side of him. Like this, he looks cool, calm, controlled. Like this, he can pretend that he’s not about to crack apart. 

“Look,” Sam snaps, losing his Herculean grip on his temper, “listen or don’t, but that’s what I see. And, for what it’s worth--” He pauses, his bravado faltering for a moment before he soldiers on, “if you wanted to, with Cas I mean...You deserve someone who’s going to make you happy. You’ve earned that.” Sam’s eyes flick to the wall. Dean understands the gesture because behind that wall is Jess. 

Dean doesn’t allow himself to feel jealousy for Sam. It’s not Sam’s fault that he met the love of his life sophomore year of college, not Sam’s fault that things just seem to slot magically in place for him. Dean doesn’t envy him, he really, truly doesn’t. 

But just for a moment, he lets himself wish that he was able to look at a wall and know that the person on the other side was wholly and completely his. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The first morning of Christmas break, Dean awakes earlier than usual, giddy with the prospect of two weeks off. By the afternoon, his house is spotless and all presents are wrapped. Content with his burst of productivity, Dean slumps into his couch and decides to rot his brain out with mindless reality television. 

He spends the week up until Christmas finishing up last minute shopping, taking time out to spend time with Ellen and Bobby. He goes out to lunch once with Sam, where both of them carefully avoid even mentioning the last conversation. Ellen does ask, over baking Christmas cookies, if Cas will be joining them for Christmas dinner. Dean answers in the negative. 

Ellen frowns as she rolls out the dough. “Stuck with that family of his?” It’s not really a question, so Dean doesn’t bother to answer. The small ‘mm-hmm’ is more damning than dozens of hurled curses. “Well, you let him know that if he changes his mind, he’s welcome to come back.” Dean nods, wordlessly, and the subject is thankfully, dropped. 

Neither Bobby or Ellen are religious, which means that there’s a lack of manger scenes or infants in their houses. Instead, Dean crowds his house with lights and the most obnoxious reindeer he can find. Jess prefers cherubic, rosy-cheeked Santas, and Ellen favors snowmen. Charlie breaks out her Christmas-themed Enterprise crew, and Bobby just rolls his eyes and tries not to break anything. 

Sam and Jess leave four days before Christmas, to go spend a few days with Jess’ family in California. Dean drives them to the airport, accepts their hugs. He pretends that the strength of his embrace has everything to do with how much he’ll miss them, opposed to the low whine of airplane engines surrounding him. 

He even sticks around to watch their plane take off, sitting on the hood of the Impala and watching until it becomes little more than a speck in the sky. He drives back home, idly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Put into the category of Things Never Said, is Sam’s unexpected return to Lawrence, Kansas. Sam never explained why he moved back to the homestead, just called Dean a week before his graduation, and told him that he’d accepted a position with a firm in Lawrence, and that Jess had been able to find work with another firm as well. Unable to support himself on his unexpectedly wobbly knees, Dean collapsed into a chair and choked back the gratitude clogging his throat. “That’s good Sam,” he finally got out, for once thankful for the half country of phone lines between the two of them. “That’s really good. I know that Bobby and Ellen will be happy to see the two of you.” 

Neither of them had been fooled by the pretense, but it hadn’t been necessary to call attention to the lie. It was enough, for Dean, to know that his brother was less than thirty minutes away, that if anything ever went wrong then he could be there. Take care of Sammy. 

Call him weak, call him clingy, call him co-dependent--Dean sleeps better when he and his brother are in the same postal code. 

He drives back to his house, secure in the knowledge that Sam and Jess will be flying back into town on Christmas Eve. Another act of kindness, unacknowledged, for Sam to ensure that he spends all major holidays with Dean. Maybe one day, Dean will be able to look at someone else and feel the pulse of _familybloodfamily_ in his veins. Maybe one day, Dean will be able to let his little brother have a life without him. But until that day, he’ll hold on, as tight as he can, for as long as he can. 

He puts on Boston when he gets home, something that will clear his mind and fill the house with noise. He glances at his phone, then away, then at his phone again. It makes him feel more than pathetic, but he can’t deny the swift surge of pleasure he gets when Cas texts him back, tells him that he’ll be at Dean’s house in fifteen minutes. 

When he arrives, Cas takes in the plethora of decorations carefully arranged throughout the house. Garlands adorn every doorway, offset by bright red velvet bows, and twinkling lights wrap around the bannister of his staircase. His refrigerator is laden with enough magnets to threaten the balance of the machine, while various potholders and oven mitts hang from any available surface. The tree has a particular place of honor in Dean’s living room, rising tall in the room. The scent of pine is omnipresent, while the pile of gifts underneath the tree has been carefully arranged to ensure that the light catches the shiny paper and bows. 

Cas, wisely, says nothing. He sits on the couch, opposite from Dean. Dean doesn’t bring up Christmas, too aware of still tender wounds. Like everything else, Christmas is in Cas’ hands. 

The night passes, like most of their nights. Dean insists that Cas watch an episode of Dr. Sexy with him (“You need to keep caught up man, otherwise you’ll forget everything that’s happened!”), and then he starts teaching Cas the rudiments of Texas Hold ‘Em. Cas, for all his knowledge, is woefully ignorant of card games, which Dean simply can’t abide. Besides, Cas has such a good poker face already, it would be a shame if he never got a chance to exploit that for monetary value. 

It’s easy between the two of them, if a little stilted. The memory of their last conversation hangs over them and Dean doesn’t think he’s imagining the weariness in Cas’ eyes, the heaviness in the downturn of his mouth. He slouches, when he thinks Dean’s not looking, and on his way back from the kitchen, Dean catches him running his fingers through his hair, leaving the dark strands in disarray. 

It’s not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s what they have, and Dean tries to be content with that. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Come Christmas morning, and Dean greets the day with the enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated six year old. He packs the Impala full of cookies, breads, and presents, and speeds his way over to Bobby’s. He takes pleasure in banging on the door of the guest room, grinning when Jo’s high pitched curses echo through the thin material of the door. 

“Dean?” Ellen calls from downstairs. “You ain’t Santa Claus, much as you want to be, so I suggest that you leave her alone, for all our sakes.” Dean rolls his eyes, but submits to the request. He goes downstairs, where his heart beats a happy thud of recognition: Sam and Jess crowd the kitchen. Sam licks remnants of a sticky bun off his fingers, while Jess leans against the table, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands. 

Family. A sense of belonging. The knowledge that no matter what he does or did, and he’s pulled some shit in his day, these people will have his back. Even Jo, who stumbles downstairs forty-five minutes later, snarling until she gets coffee in her, even Jo would move mountains and valleys for him. 

It’s such a simple thing and Dean didn’t think that he took it for granted, but he realizes that he did. The simple comfort from annoying Bobby, from stealing a pecan out from underneath Ellen’s nose, even the sharp dig of Jo’s elbow into his side when she tells him to move over on the couch. These facets all help form a part of the human called Dean Winchester, and he aches to think of what he would have become if he didn’t have these things to fall back upon. 

So Dean laughs with his family, and opens gifts, and preens when his offerings are accepted with delight and glee, and spares a moment for Castiel, stuck with blood, but not with family. 

\--

After Christmas lunch, Dean retires to the living room. He and Jo sprawl out on the couch together, their legs tangling as they fall into a stupor. Stray bits of wrapping paper and bows still litter the ground, like shrapnel on a battlefield. If Dean was a better person, then he would offer to help clean up. But Dean is a lazy, lazy person, and so he lays on the couch, waiting for the time that his stomach stops complaining so he can shove more pie into his face. 

“Hey Dean?” Jo’s voice is soft and lazy, almost asleep. 

Dean mumbles a reply, his own eyelids heavy. 

“Why didn’t Castiel come over today?” 

A bolt travels through Dean, enough to jolt him out of his dazed state. He sits up and looks at Jo, still lolling on the opposite end of the couch. “He does have his own family,” he says, wincing at his sharp tone. 

“Not really,” Jo murmurs, pulling down a throw from the couch. “Remember Thanksgiving?” 

How could Dean forget? Falling asleep next to Cas, right here on this very couch, the gentle puffs of his breath against the tender skin of Dean’s ear. The subtle press of fingertips into his side, the misplaced, proprietary pleasure when Dean sat up and Cas, still asleep, grumbled in discontent. 

“He came here to get away from his family.” Jo’s going, her voice thick and slurred with sleep. “‘S Christmas. Why isn’t he here?”

She falls asleep, which is a gift. Dean doesn’t have an answer. But her question does send him into his pocket for his phone. 

He flips through the mass texts from people he never talks to, all wishing him ‘Merry Christmas!’, with the necessary emojis. Cas, he notes, is not among those wishing a good day to him, and he doesn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed about that. 

His fingers tap out a quick message, which he sends before he can second-guess himself into rewording it. 

_hope your day is going alright so far just send up a signal if you need to be rescued_

He doesn’t expect a response, so it’s a surprise when his phone buzzes not half a minute later. Dean glances at the screen. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. 

_Day is going about as well as expected, at least so far. Be watching the skies for my signal._

Dean types out a reply and he spends a good half hour texting back and forth with Castiel. He doesn’t get a straight answer about what’s actually happening at Michael’s house, but he’s already getting more than he expected, by the sheer fact that Cas is actually talking to him. 

Dean rides the waves of benevolence as long as they keep rolling into the shore. However, it ends with Cas’ last text. 

_I have to go. Dinner is getting ready to start and I wouldn’t be caught dead with my phone. Good night Dean_. 

Dean swallows and reluctantly slides his phone back into his pocket. There’s no mistaking the intent of that text: obviously, Cas is through for the day. Dean swallows the sting, tells himself that it doesn’t matter. It tastes like a lie, even in the recesses of his brain, but Dean pushes that aside. 

Ellen and Bobby stay in the kitchen, leaving Sam, Jess, Dean, and a half-conscious Jo to their own devices. By virtue of being oldest, Dean chooses the movie (Die Hard, like there was any other choice), over the whining of Sam, who wanted something stupid like It’s a Wonderful Life. Not to drag the classics, but it’s thirty minutes of a movie stretched out into two and a half hours. Sam is a nerd. 

Die Hard is a tradition, so much so that Dean doesn’t really need to pay attention to the screen. By this moment in his life, he could turn the movie into a one man play, if needed. Even the explosions are soothing because they occur exactly when they’re supposed to. Everything in its place. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is soft, due to the fact that Jess is asleep on his chest. 

“Yeah Sammy?” 

“What are you still doing here?”

Dean twists in his seat to look at Sam. “You think that I have other plans for tonight?”

“I know that you do.” 

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. “What are you, my marriage counselor?” 

“I’ve no doubt that one day, I’ll be just that. But for right now--You’re my brother, and I love you, but you’re being stupid about this. Just...Just go, for God’s sake.” 

The words sting, even though that’s not the intent. Sam, telling him to go...But Sam is smiling, his eyes understanding. “Seriously Dean, it’s fine. It’s Christmas. He shouldn’t be alone.” 

Dean thinks back to Cas’ house: pristine, impersonal. Cold. Thinks about how it would feel to come home to that, after being scraped raw and left bleeding. Thinks about Cas curling up on his couch, alone, because the stupid bastard would rather choke on his pride than ask for help. 

“Sam,” Dean says, a wicked, awful, plan coming to mind, like he’s the reverse Grinch. Sam perks up, interest lighting up his eyes. “I’m going to need some help.” 

\-------

How many times has Dean told Cas that the fake rock beside his front door isn’t fooling anyone? Dean lets himself into Cas’ house, with the spare key found in the fake rock, and sets up his plan. Then, he settles down to wait. 

It doesn’t take long, maybe forty-five minutes. Headlights arc across the living room windows and Dean freezes, somehow convinced that Cas will be able to see him. Nothing happens, and Dean waits, his pulse ratcheting up with the passing of every second. His ears catch the sound of tires on the asphalt of the driveway. The light illuminating the living room disappears, followed by the sound of a car door opening and closing. The hollow noise echoes through the house and Dean holds his breath in anticipation. 

The sound of the key scraping in the lock is louder than it has any right to be. Dean’s heart skips a one-two beat, as he re-thinks every decision which led him to hide in his best friend’s living room, in the dark. This isn’t what normal people do, this is what creepy stalkers do, and Cas never gave any indication at all that he actually enjoys Christmas...

It doesn’t take someone three tries to open their back door. 

The key rasps a final time, this time accompanied by the quiet click of the deadbolt releasing. Dean holds his breath as the door slowly creaks open. A sliver of light falls on Cas’ face. Dean’s heart dips into a barrel roll before free-falling in a plummet to earth. 

This is Castiel Milton when he thinks he’s alone. This is what Cas looks like when he doesn’t have anyone to perform for. 

Mostly, he looks tired. The hard set to his shoulders is softened, the unyielding set of his jaw relaxed. The door shuts, taking away Dean’s source of light. Still, Cas waits to turn on a light. Instead, a sigh wafts through the air, the sound amplified in the absence of any other senses. Dean waits, caught in indecision. If he wants to cement the surprise then he needs to act now. On the other hand--It’s pathetic and cowardly, but when else will Dean get this opportunity, to see Cas without the masks and facades? 

Another sigh escapes, this one louder and harsher. It’s followed by a _"Fuck'_ , breathed quiet into the room. Dean swallows. This is a private moment, something that he's never supposed to see. This is the emperor without his clothes, the wizard behind the screen. This is the most secret part, the piece of themselves only revealed in chance glances caught in mirrors unaware. This is not for him. Shame prickles over the back of his neck and Dean scrambles to act. 

He fumbles with the plug, but eventually he manages to slide it into the electrical socket. Light flares through the living room. It’s just Christmas lights, but against the pitch black of the rest of the house, they’re blindingly brilliant. 

Dean, knowing what was coming, closed his eyes. Cas, who had no such warning, did not, and now he stumbles against the counter, hand thrown up to protect his eyes. “What the _fuck_ ,” he yelps, voice breaking on the last high syllable. There’s something delightful about that. He laughs, and Cas relaxes once he recognizes the sound. 

“Dean?” he asks, blinking owlishly as his eyes adjust. “Dean, what the, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

Dean stands in the midst of his splendor and throws his arms wide across his domain. It’s not a lot, but he made do with what he could cannibalize from Bobby’s house. It’s certainly more than there was before. He’s hung lights from Cas’ ceiling, draped them over doorframes and fans, so that the whole living room is bathed in soft, twinkling light. He even found a small tree, one step away from Charlie Brown’s in terms of appearance, but it’s better than nothing. Under it, he put Cas’ gift. 

As far as a winter wonderland goes, it’s pathetic. But, as Cas takes a step forward, lights reflected in his wide eyes, Dean thinks that it’s utterly perfect. 

“Merry Christmas,” Dean says, his grin faltering when Cas remains at the divide between kitchen and living room. “Cas, is...is everything all right?” He’d thought that Cas was fine with this, but maybe he was wrong…

To Dean’s alarm, he sees that Cas’ eyes are shiny. He wants to tear his eyes away, but they remain stubbornly fixed on Cas’ stunned expression. Awe is written over every part of Cas, in the way that his eyes drink in the sights, how his fingers brush over the plastic needles of the tiny tree. 

“Dean,” Cas says, like there’s a universe held within the syllables. Like the sound of Dean’s name is enough to encompass an entire conversation. “Dean, you…” 

Though Cas isn’t the chattiest of people, it’s rare that he’s at a loss for words. Dean witnesses it now, Cas’ mouth opening and shutting several times, before he settles for staring at Dean. 

“Come on Cas,” Dean finally says, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. _He looks at you too_ , Charlie had said, but Dean doesn’t think that she meant this. This...This is how he looks at pie, how other people look at artwork or the Grand Canyon. Like what they’re seeing in front of them is too good to be true, like there has to be a catch somewhere. 

Dean’s just a guy. A pretty shitty guy, if all things are taken into account. He doesn’t deserve this, Cas looking at him like he’s some kind of marvel. “Blink or something, would you?”

Cas’ eyes don’t lose their glint but something happens to his mouth, a decision taking place. Dean doesn’t have time to prepare before Castiel is moving forward, his grim mouth at odds with the wonderment in his eyes. Dean has just enough time to think _Oh No_ mingled with _Yes Please_ , as Cas roughly grabs the lapel of his overshirt. This is it, _yes please, yes please_ \--

Cas’ body slamming into his isn’t entirely what he was preparing himself for--Dean expected a more facial-centric collision, but this is awesome too, Cas’ arms wrapping tightly around his torso, fingers digging in hard into the skin of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers as Cas’ humid breath hits the vulnerable skin of Dean’s throat, his nose pressing into the soft skin just at Dean’s hairline. 

It’s nothing like the hug of a month ago, tentative, unsure, both of them touching the other like they were spun glass. Cas holds onto him with the desperation of a drowning man, his arms merciless around Dean’s chest. Dean clutches him close, this one solid thing in a sea of insecurities. 

Eons pass in seconds, and eventually Cas pulls away. A faint pink tinge rests on his cheeks and he looks away from Dean as he takes a step back. “I never would have...Dean, thank you.” Cas’ voice is rougher than usual and Dean has to believe that the screech of earlier wrecked his vocal chords. 

“Cas, it was--” Dean was about to say _It’s nothing_ , but that’s not the whole truth. Yeah, the actual effort was minimal at best, but the thought behind it? Definitely not nothing. 

Dean’s knees wobble as the truth slams into him with the delicacy of a runaway train. It’s like being sucker-punched, it’s like the back of his father’s hand across his mouth, like missing the final step on the way down. It’s like the first bite of pie, almost too hot but so right, the sweet burn of a thirty year old whiskey. It’s falling, except Dean knows that it’s not, because he was already falling for a long time. This is brace for impact, this is the theory of gravity proven, this is hitting the ground at a thousand miles an hour. 

He’s in love with Cas. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas ended up a little more angsty and a little less fluffy than I wanted it, but oh well, that's life.


	11. open up my arms and fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New Year always brings changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I am so sorry that this has taken me this long to get out. I've not been feeling well and spending all my extra time trying to kickstart my immune system into working. 
> 
> Second--I always knew that this would be a novel length project, but here we are, done with Part I and 80,000k+ words in and I'm starting to realize what a big idea this really was. I'd like to thank all of you for sticking with me and giving such wonderful support. 
> 
> I know that this chapter took longer than all the others, but I hope that it more than makes up for it. *kisses*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Dean remembers being in love with Lisa, if you can call it that. He remembers performing love: kisses on her cheek, pancakes in the morning, car doors opened. As if love were something you do and not something that you are. As if, now, every one of his feeble electrons does not whisper _love love love_ every day until his whole body vibrates with the resonance of it. 

His blood pumps a dizzying repetition of _joy joy joy_ , to the point where he feels bubbling, full to the brim with it. His 6-plus foot frame can’t contain it; he wants to get on the phone and call his whole contact list with the news. Wants to tell random strangers. The pizza delivery boy. The postman. The checkout clerk. Wants to spill over and say: _I am in love. Isn’t it wonderful_. 

Isn’t it terrible. 

Dean’s in love with Cas.

He’s in love with every part of him: his weird eyes that don’t need to blink with the same frequency as other people’s, the permanently fucked up hair that refuses to lay flat, his stupid, pouty lips, his six foot tall frame that’s made up of muscle, sarcasm, and stubbornness. 

More than that. He’s in love with Cas’ whip-crack intelligence, the way that he chomps on his lower lip when he’s trying to figure out a problem. He’s in love with Cas’ temper, the short fuse that sends him snapping and snarling. The grumpiness always lurking a heartbeat below the surface. The gentleness, the kindness. The curiosity. The genuine wonder in Cas’ eyes as he peers at the world. And yes, if Dean allows himself to be selfish, the way that Cas says his name, like Dean is the journey and destination all at once. 

He’s in love with Cas. 

It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and he couldn’t be more thrilled. 

Christmas night passes in a blur. When Dean looks back on it the next day, it’s like a video he watched while he was drunk. Like the whole thing happened to someone else. Snippets of the night come back to him through the cloud, like Polaroid images come to life. 

Cas’ delight when he opened his present. Dean had gotten him sachets of seeds, all guaranteed to bring swarms of honeybees to gardens. He’d also capitulated to his sense of humor and gotten Cas a mug with a smiling bee printed on one side, and the word ‘Bee-lieve’ on the other side. Cas hates puns and that’s what makes it all worthwhile. 

Another snapshot, this time of Cas telling him _Wait here_ , pointing a cautionary finger at him, a dazed smile still lingering on his face, like he forgot it was there. Dean had sat on his couch, head still tingling with discovery. He wondered if Galileo felt like this when he watched the shifting clouds on Venus, like there were cosmos lurking at his fingertips. 

It’s brilliant, Cas’ gift for him. Of course it is, because Cas has never done anything half-assed in his whole life. Somehow, Cas tracked down two original Led Zeppelin tour posters, one from ‘73 tour the other from ‘69. Cas sits on the edge of the chair as Dean runs his fingers over the small tears and rips in the paper, the sharp corners rounded out by time and use. 

“Cas,” he says, his eyes lingering on the poster. He can’t bear to look at Cas right now. If he does, then he thinks that his skin will split, a supernova leaking out of him. 

Dean is in love. 

Love is such a paltry word. Every rom-com spits out the concept at least once. It seems stupid to use the same word to describe how he feels about a good pizza to describe what he feels towards Cas. 

Dean spends an afternoon looking up synonyms for love, in all of its iterations. 

_Fondness_. He’s fond of many things: Jess’ love of sparkling water, Jo’s habit of working out close to midnight, Bobby’s closeted Tori Spelling addiction. Hell, he’s fond of crunchy peanut butter. 

_Infatuation_. Lisa. Cassie. Dean had submerged himself into them, like if he swam hard and deep enough then he could leave the worst parts of himself behind. It hadn’t worked; all he’d done was just leave the dark and sticky parts of himself in the places where they would cause the most damage when they were discovered. And when the shiny newness faded, when Dean discovered that even when he was lost within another person, he was still the same fuck-up he’d always been...Well, in the words of The Boss, he was born to run. 

_Brotherliness_. He’s not touching this one with a ten-foot pole. 

_Weakness_. His father had told him that often enough. The reason that Dean struggled so much was because he was weak, he wasn’t going to be able to protect Sam if he was weak. He needed to toughen up, be a man. He thinks about his father, reduced to a shell, because the woman that he loved died. Is his father weak, or just flawed? Did love create the crevice or did it just expose it? 

_Dearest_. Dean’s chest constricts around the word, aching like it was written on his ribs. 

_Desire_. The hum and pulse of it runs through his veins, strengthens whenever he thinks about the knob of Cas’ knee digging into the meat of his thigh. Cas’ hands and the way that they treat delicate things. The solidity of him, the strength of his arms. The cut of his hip. The faint, chapped lines in his lips. Dean wants to taste him, the bitter salt tang. Dean understands desire, understands the sparks trailing from his fingers as he runs his hands over his throat, his chest, his stomach, down to his groin. 

_Friendliness_. Dean doesn’t make friends easily; the ones he has had to work for the privilege. He tries to be a good friend, to put the needs of others above his own. Most of the time he thinks that it works. He’s tried to be a good friend to Cas, tried to put his needs first. Tries to respect what he wants. Knows that if he were to lose Cas’ friendship then there would be a gaping hole scooped out of him, edges left shredded and bleeding. 

_Adoration_. Dean wants to fall to his knees and experience Cas like other people experience being born-again. Wants to find his religion in the dips of his spine, the stutter of his heart. Wants to set up his world in the cradle of Cas’ hips. Wants to write odes to him. If he could, then he would create paintings of him, slap his face across chapel walls. 

Dean is in love with Cas. 

He doesn’t know exactly what that means; the thesaurus leaves him high and dry. He knows what it isn’t and what he wants it to be. He knows the soaring bliss, the glee, the satisfied secret sliding through his veins. 

He is in love. 

Isn’t it terrible. Isn’t it wonderful. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

The week after Christmas is a slippery, liminal space that slides and flops. Without any place to be or any obligations to keep, Dean loses track of the days. He fulfills basic obligations: he meets up once with Jo for lunch, he eats dinner with Bobby and Ellen, he even hits the after-Christmas sales with Jess. While shoving aside yuppie Moms, he learns from her that Cas and Sam had lunch together the previous day. The knowledge sends a squiggle through Dean’s stomach. 

He’d be lying if he said that it didn’t delight him, how easily Cas seems to fit in with the rest of his friends and family. He wasn’t surprised by Cas and Sam getting along: the two of them can nerd-gasm for hours about the intricacies of Article I in the the Constitution, so of course they were going to be friends. Jess too, is no surprise. She has the rare ability of being affable to almost everyone she meets and Dean has yet to meet the person who truly dislikes her. Charlie makes friends as easy as breathing, and she accepted Cas almost as naturally. 

Bobby, Ellen, and Jo were a bit of a surprise. Bobby makes it a point to hate everyone, while Ellen and Jo consider it a point of pride to remain unimpressed by anyone less than Chuck Norris. That they accept Cas so readily is unexpected. Dean knows that it has something to do with his blatant affection towards Cas, but there had been genuine regret when he told them that Cas wouldn’t be joining the family for Christmas. 

It brings Dean’s mind back to the conversation he had with Sam, when he could comfortably pretend that all that was between him and Cas was just a stupid little crush. _You act like he’s always been here. You act like you want him to stay_. Dean wants Cas to slot into his life as easily as a puzzle piece, to where their individual edges get blurred with age until they’re indistinguishable. Cas’ easiness with his family cements the idea that maybe, this is something that he could be allowed, maybe, just maybe, Cas could end up staying. 

It’s a dangerous train of thought, and one that Dean tries to squash, but it lingers at the back of his mind, rearing its ugly head at inopportune moments. He’ll be making breakfast and find himself making more than one person could reasonably eat. Or he’ll read something funny on his phone and immediately turn, ready to show it just so he can hear the laugh. He’ll be half asleep and roll over, his hand groping at cold sheets, seeking the warmth of a non-existent body. 

When his foggy brain catches up enough to realize what his hand is searching for, Dean will bolt upright, his heart dipping down to say hello to his stomach before lodging somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He lays back down in a bed too big for his solitary body, tossing and turning in a futile search for comfort. He can’t stop torturing himself with the _What-ifs_ or the _Maybes_ , and by December 28th, Dean thinks that he might legitimately go insane. 

It’s either beneficial or disastrous that Cas comes over the next night. 

It’s their first time being together since Christmas. Cas acts like nothing’s changed, because for him, nothing has. In Cas’ eyes, he’s still Dean: a little bit of an asshole, a lot of a grump, maybe a nerd, definitely still the coolest person that Cas has ever met. Dean’s assuming that’s Cas’ opinion of him at least. 

Dean can’t stop noticing the tiny details about Cas: how his left eyebrow is always the designated brow for upward mobility, how Cas’ shirt pulls at his shoulders when he sits down. The interest in Cas’ eyes as Dean talks about the deals that he and Jess scored the previous day at the sales. His stomach does happy little flips, while Dean’s brain futilely attempts to pump the brakes. 

If being around random strangers was bad, then being around Cas is catastrophic. Apocalyptic. Dean’s amazed that Cas can’t simply look at him and tell the truth. It’s written in every look, in every laugh, every touch. The air escaping Dean’s mouth whispers love love love in hopes that it’ll find its way, second-hand, into Cas’ lungs. Every piece of him squirms beneath his skin, in a wild attempt to release Dean’s greatest secret. Sitting next to Cas is an act of self-denial that the Buddha would be proud of. 

Tonight, he’s decided to indulge himself. Once he and Cas are settled, he flicks off the harsher lights, leaving only the soft lamp in the corner of the room. The TV snaps on and the sound of John William’s iconic score fills the room. Cas glances at the television and Dean sees the moment when his gaze sharpens with interest. 

“This was your Halloween costume,” Cas remarks, tilting his head in consideration. 

A happy glow fills Dean. Stupid to feel this happy that Cas remembered something so trivial. God, he’s so fucking _weak_ for this man. 

“I promised Charlie and Sam that I was going to educate you. Now shut up and watch how a _real_ history professor should act.” An image comes to Dean, unbidden, about shoving Cas into a loose, white shirt, tight brown pants, and a fedora. Maybe a whip on his hip? Dean shuts down that train of thought and, just in case, pulls a blanket over his lap. 

Dean can always judge Cas’ opinions of movies based on how much he talks during them. And the little sonofabitch can ramble, when he has a mind to, say for instance, during required viewings of Dr. Sexy. Cas gives his opinion on everything from the sexist nature of the women’s roles, to the inaccuracies in medical procedure (like Cas fucking knows anything about how hospitals are run), to how uncomfortable it would be to wear cowboy boots all day long. If his commentaries weren’t almost as interesting as the show itself, then Dean would have killed him a long time ago and tried to pass it off as an unfortunate accident. 

As long as Dr. Jones is on the screen, Cas remains fixated on the screen. He laughs in all the right places and halfway through the movie, Dean realizes that he’s watching Cas more than the movie. A bemused fondness runs through him: apparently Castiel Milton trumps young Harrison Ford. Who would have thought ( _so fucking gone_ )? 

They make their way through the original trilogy (“I thought that there was a fourth movie?” Cas asks in his blissful ignorance, and bless him, he looks befuddled when Dean retches and says “We don’t speak of the fourth movie Cas, now give me that popcorn and shut up”), and by the time that the credits roll on _The Last Crusade_ , they’ve become little more than boneless lumps on the couch. 

Dean stretches out on his side, his shoulder and arm pressed into Cas’ side. Cas leans towards him, close enough that Dean can smell his shampoo. If Dean tilted his head and reached up, he would be close enough to press a kiss to the curve of Castiel’s jaw. He shifts, thankful again for the blanket covering his groin. 

“Dean.” Cas’ lazy voice breaks the silence, but the hard edge buried underneath the indolence has Dean sitting up straight. “I was wondering what your plans were for the New Year.” 

“The whole thing or the celebration?” Dean asks, being deliberately obtuse. His heart picks up a wild tapdance against his lungs. It sounds almost like Cas wants to spend….but that’s stupid. 

Cas rolls his eyes and Dean relents. “Hadn’t decided anything yet. Sam has a thing with the people at his firm and that’s not really my scene, so I was probably going to go over to Benny’s or Charlie’s.” 

Castiel exhales a soft Ah, and his lips purse. Intrigued, Dean pulls away to get a better look at his face. “Why? You have a better plan?”

Cas flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. If Dean weren’t hyper-fixated on every last facet of Cas, then he probably would have missed the movement altogether. Cas plasters a smile across his face, mouth too wide, eyes too hard. Dean’s teeth grit together at the falsehood in the expression, and only the thought that this must be something very bad indeed, to put that look on Cas’ face, stays Dean’s irritation.

“No, no.” Cas shakes his head, like that’s fooling anyone. “That sounds like fun. If her Halloween party is anything to judge by, I’m sure that Charlie’s New Year’s party will be cataclysmic.” 

The evasion is so clumsy as to be laughable. Normally, Dean would let it slide and allow Cas to lead him away, but his interest is piqued. “So, while I’m at Charlie’s, what will you be doing?”

Cas’ jaw, the one weakness in his impeccable poker face, ticks. “Michael holds a gathering every New Year’s Eve.” 

The scoff comes out before Dean has a chance to restrain himself. “Cas, you can’t tell me--”

“It’s an important networking opportunity,” Cas interrupts him, eyes fixed on the middle distance. Dean hates how the mention of his family sends Cas tail spinning into places that Dean can’t possibly hope to follow. He’d thought, after Christmas, that maybe they’d laid these ghosts to rest, at least for a year, but true to form, nothing in Dean’s life is ever that easy. 

“It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s an important drinking opportunity.” 

“Associates from Milton Enterprises, as well as political contacts will be there. The family is expected to put in an appearance.” 

“So what, you’re held hostage so that Michael can have a few photo ops?” 

“Dean.” 

If there had been animosity in Cas’ voice, then Dean would have railed against it. If Cas had been combative, then Dean would have thrown himself into the fight without a second thought. It’s the weariness that catches his attention and douses the flames of his temper before they have a chance to spark. It’s only been three days since Christmas, since he heard the same quiet, defeated tone coming from Cas. The only difference is, the last time Dean heard it, he wasn’t meant to. 

Dean sighs and looks up at his ceiling like it might have some inspiration. Unsurprisingly, the whorls in the plaster offer little in the way of advice, so he’s left with his intuition. Not the best companion, but Dean’s made do with worse. “Sorry,” comes out of his mouth and it’s not necessarily what he wanted to say, but judging from the softening of Cas’ eyes, it’s not the worst thing he could have come out with. 

“The catering is usually quite good,” Cas offers, like he’s trying to make amends. “Not to mention that Michael is very generous with the open bar.” 

“What else would you expect for a New Year’s party?’

A faint smile ghosts across Cas’ face. “As far as photo ops go, it’s much more preferable than either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Plus, the number of guests means that it’s possible to slip underneath the radar, for the most part. Come in, sign the guestbook, have a few drinks, and leave.” 

“Good,” Dean says. The idea that Cas could leave early has him perking up with interest. “Maybe you could make it over to Charlie’s in time for the countdown.” 

Fantasies dance around Dean’s head--Fireworks reflected in Cas’ eyes, a new year bursting into existence around them, the slow seduction--He’d have to be standing close to Cas, right as the ball dropped, and then turn to him and say _it’s for luck_. Maybe Cas would understand, or maybe he wouldn’t--maybe Dean would have enough time to catch that furrow of confusion on his face, just before he leaned down and brushed his lips softly, so softly, across Cas’. Enough to make him gasp. Enough to make him crave more. 

Dean’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t notice the disappointed frown on Cas’ face until the other man says, “I’m sorry. The guests always take a picture right after midnight. Michael’s way of showing that we’re united in the upcoming year.” 

Dean doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes. “You know Cas, you keep on telling me how much better this party is than the others, but so far, I’m not seeing it. It sounds like the same old torture and honestly--don’t look at me like that, you have to have thought the same thing! I don’t see why you keep on putting yourself through this. God knows, you couldn’t pay me to go to something like that.” 

Cas’ face crumples, eyebrows swooping down to meet at the bridge of his nose, his lips thinning into an invisible line, his eyes suddenly too wide for his face. “Ah,” he breathes. Usually when Cas makes that noise it’s in realization or satisfaction, but this time it sounds like someone reached into his chest and cracked every one of his ribs. “Of course you wouldn’t. How foolish.” An indecipherable loon passes over his face, swift as a blink, and when it disappears, Cas’ face is a smooth, marble mask. 

“Cas,” Dean begins. He can recognize when something’s gone terribly wrong, even if he doesn’t yet know why. He pushes himself upright, not wanting to have this conversation while he’s flat on his back. “Look, whatever I said, I’m sorry. I know that you think that you’ve got to do this and I’m sorry to give you such a hard time about it.” Dean swallows, before offering up, “Fuck knows that I’m the last one to talk about family obligations. You do what you think you’ve got to do. And if you do manage to sneak out early, you know where I’ll be.” 

“That’s not the point.” Cas’ voice is low, measured, but it wobbles at the end, like all that careful control is splintering away. 

“Really?” Dean’s voice holds a snap, because hell, he’d just bared a little bit of his soul, given Cas the validation that he was so obviously looking for, and even offered yet another invitation for him to join the real folks and spend non-obligatory, guilt-free fun times with them. What more does he want? 

Dean says as much to Cas, and witnesses, first-hand, the unleashing of all that control.

One time, when he was younger, Dad was hunting down what he promised was ‘A good lead Dean, a damn good lead!’. It had them crossing the Oklahoma prairie late in July, right in peak tornado season. Dean remembers leaning out the back window of the Impala and watching the thunderclouds stack on each other, lightning striking deep in the depths. The air was moist and almost cool, and the sky took on a faint green tinge. Everything was still, to the point where the roar of Baby’s engine was all that could be heard. 

And then the funnel cloud touched down and Dean watched debris scatter in its wake. 

Watching Cas lose his cool is kind of like that. His shoulders roll, jaw clenches and juts forward, and his knuckles crack with the pressure of how tightly his fists are clenched. Dean holds his breath, waiting for the explosion, but it never comes. Instead, Cas takes a long inhale, nostrils flaring as his lungs expand, before he glances up at the ceiling. When he looks back at Dean, his face is as impassive as Dean’s ever seen it. 

“I should go,” he says. 

Dean’s chest constricts at the finality in his words. From the distant look in Cas’ eyes, the impersonal delivery of the words...He can’t believe that Cas doesn’t mean to walk away forever. 

“Cas, come on,” Dean tries. He rises, intent on reaching out to Cas, but the other man freezes him in place with a look. It leaves Dean hunched over like some modern-day Quasimodo, a position which, no doubt, will play hell on his lower back. “Look, I’m an asshole, just...come on.” 

He’s not sure what he’s pleading for, only that he doesn’t get it. Cas glances towards the door, then back at Dean, and Dean knows that he’s been dismissed. Unimportant, unworthy. Cas conveys all of that with a look, scraping at still festering wounds. 

“Have a good New Year’s,” Cas tells him, voice icy. “Goodbye Dean.” 

He turns and walks out, closing the door deliberately, carefully, behind him. Dean watches him go.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He sleeps in the next day, lounging in bed until early afternoon. He has no reason to be up early and every reason to feel sorry for himself, so he spends his time rolling over from one side to the other, playing games on his phone and fitfully reading a pulp paperback Benny loaned him. He ignores the Cas shaped lump of regret in his brain and doesn’t move until his stomach and bladder band together and force him upright. 

The scent of freshly brewed coffee perks him up but it doesn’t lighten his mood. He’s so busy feeling miserable that he almost ignores Charlie’s call when it flashes across his screen. Only the knowledge that she’ll keep calling and texting him until he runs out of memory have him punching the green button on his screen. 

“What’s up Winchester?” 

“Not much.” It’s an effort to pull enthusiasm into his voice, one that falls flat, if Charlie’s sudden silence is anything to go by. “What happened that I rated a call?” Charlie is a good little millennial and never calls if she can help it. 

“Invitations should always be done over the phone and not through texts.” 

There’s no possible way that Charlie could know that New Year’s was a touchy topic but Dean spares a moment to hate her for a second anyway. He pulls himself together, reminds himself that his pre-New Year’s resolution is to not be a self-centered asshole, and fakes happiness. 

“Thought you’d forgotten all about me kiddo! Anything special going on this year? Fireworks, clowns, trapeze artists?”

“Just the usual--copious amounts of alcohol and tons of bad decisions. Hey, speaking of bad decisions, you should bring Cas along.” 

Dean’s breath stutters in his chest, before he pushes a laugh through the phone lines. “Been practicing that segue for long?”

“Maybe,” Charlie answers. “Stop avoiding the question. Bring dreamboat.” 

“He’s ah, he’s got someplace else to be that night.” 

Charlie’s voice is sympathetic, even though the fizz of the phone. “Family again?”

And even though Dean knows that Cas would hate him for airing his dirty laundry, before he can stop himself, the whole story comes pouring out of his mouth: his invitation, Cas’ refusal, Cas’ adherence to the idea that this party wasn’t going to be so bad, his swift anger at Dean, his shut down and departure. 

It takes him about five minutes to recount everything, from start to finish. It feels like it should be more, like the encounter should span a novel’s worth of words. But Dean’s left some pieces on the cutting room floor. Unsaid is the fear that _Goodbye Dean_ is a permanent state of affairs, that Castiel can cut Dean out of his life the same way that other people cut carbs. Underneath that is the terror of losing Cas, right when Dean feels like he’s just found him. And underneath even that is still the beat of _love love love_ , helpless and frail. 

After he finishes speaking, Charlie is quiet for a long minute. When she speaks, it has the same effect as an ice bucket dumped over his head. 

“You know that you’re an idiot, right?” Dean sputters and Charlie steamrollers on past him. “Like a genuine, bonafide, village idiot?”

“You going to explain why or are you just going to keep on insulting me?”

“I can’t do both?” But Charlie relents. A sharp sigh hits Dean’s ear. “When Cas was going on about the open bar and the catering and when he was telling you how much better the New Year’s party was than the Christmas get-together...Did you not realize that he was trying to ask you to come with him?”

It takes a moment before the words sink in. Dean has to rearrange the syllables and translate them individually before repackaging them into something that makes sense. Cas. Ask him. To his family’s New Year’s party. It takes Dean a long moment to finally comprehend. 

“Why didn’t he just ask me?” is all Dean can think of to say. 

Charlie makes a frustrated noise into the phone. “Because he thought you’d do exactly what you did, which was to dig in your heels and talk about how much you didn’t want to go? Because he doesn’t want to ask for favors? Or because, present company excluded, he’s the most emotionally constipated person in the world?” 

“Hey.” Dean doesn't know whether he’s protesting the insult to Cas or himself. “I have feelings.”

“Yeah, and if you processed them correctly and acted on them then you would be snuggled up with Castiel right now and not on the phone whining to me about how he’s mad at you.”

Charlie falls silent immediately after that. When she speaks again, it’s subdued, guilty. “Dean,” she murmurs. “That was…”

“Too far Charlie.” Dean’s voice comes out gruffer than usual, hurt scraping at it until it’s almost as rough as Cas’. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, and the thing about Charlie is that she doesn’t apologize for everything, just the stuff that she actually does wrong. So Dean knows that she means it, and damn it all, but he can’t hold a grudge against her. 

He doesn’t say that it’s ok, because it’s not, but she seems to read the changing of his mood. She’s still conciliatory, but her voice has recovered a little of its usual pep. “I’m hanging up the phone now. The first thing that you’re going to do is to call Cas and apologize--a real apology, not your usual Winchester bullcrap. Then you’re going to tell him that you’re going with him to his family’s thing--no trying to slide around it, or make him uninvite you. Whatever he tells you to do, you’re going to do. If he says rent a tux, you make like it’s your Prom night and get the best one there.” 

Dean is liking this plan less and less, but Charlie isn’t done yet. “And last, when you’re at his family’s party, you’re going to be your wonderful, charming self. You try to hide it, but you’re very sweet when you want to be, so be that. And then, at midnight, you are going to take that boy and you are going to kiss him until his brains dribble out around his ankles.”

Dean inhales once, thinks about the kind of kiss that it would take to bring up that imagery, and inhales again. When he thinks that he can finally control his voice, he says, “Been thinking of that one a long time too?”

He can hear the shrug over the phone. “It’s Christmas break. I have a lot of time on my hands.” 

“Sure. Well, I’m going hang up now--”

“Dean, I swear to god, if you show up at my house on New Year’s Eve, I’m going to put my foot so far up your butt…”

“Come on Charlie, you and I both know that you’re not going to do that.”

“Fine, you’re right.” Charlie pauses for a half-second and lets Dean think that he’s won. “But I’ll get Jo to do it, and you know that she’s not half as nice as me.” The threat isn’t an idle one. Charlie and Jo seem to have an unholy alliance when it comes to torturing Dean. The little sisters that he never asked for. 

“I’ll call him,” Dean says, wanting to keep expectations low. “But Charlie, you didn’t hear him last night. If I call him, then there’s a good chance that he’ll reach through the phone and punch me on basic principle.”

“Well then you take that chance, but I think that you’re overreacting just a little.” Dean rolls his eyes but he still lets his heart do a happy skip-jump when Charlie says, “He looks at you like you’re the One Ring. He’s not planning on throwing you into Mount Doom anytime soon.”

Dean laughs, and this time when he changes the topic, Charlie allows it. They spend a few more minutes on the phone, chatting about various topics: Charlie’s latest visit to her LARPer friends, the upcoming State competition for Scholastic Bowl, whether or not Benny is ever going to man up and ask Andrea to marry him. Safe, trivial things, things that definitely cannot ruin his day. 

Charlie hangs up the phone, with a pointed “Call him!” as her last words to him. Dean stares at his phone after she hangs up. The battery is at 62%. Surely that’s too low to make a call? It’s nearing 3 pm. What if Cas has gone for a run? Then he won’t be able to answer his phone. 

Dean finally selects Cas’ number and calls it, because he’s being a pussy, and Dean Winchester might be a lot of things, but a coward he is not. 

The phone rings once, then twice, then three times. Dean’s started to give up hope and is resigning himself to the indignity of the voicemail when, with a tiny click, his call is answered. “Dean.” He ends there, and Dean knows that Cas could make an entire conversation out of that one word. 

Dean closes his eyes as he rolls his eyes heavenward. He should have known that Cas wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “Hey Cas. What’s up?”

“I’m just getting ready to start planning lessons for next semester.” The implication is, of course, that Castiel is a busy, busy man, and that Dean should either get to the point or get off the phone. Dean winces. He hadn’t expected Cas to be jolly and happy, but he’d hoped that the time apart had softened Cas’ resolve. Foolish thing to hope for. 

“Cas.” _I love you. Please don’t be mad at me_. “Can we…” 

_A real apology, not your usual Winchester bullcrap_. 

“Cas, I’m sorry.” 

He can hear the soft sound of Cas breathing on the other end of the line. The steady whisper rhythm gives Dean enough resolve to continue. “Look, I know that I fucked up, all right? You were trying to ask me something and I didn’t let you.”

“It wasn’t important.” 

“Yeah it was. You don’t ask me for shit Cas, and the one time that you did, I made it all about me.” 

“Dean, you don’t have to--”

“No Cas, let me--Let me say this. You were going to ask me to come with you to Michael’s for New Year’s.” 

“It was…” Dean can imagine the expression on Cas’ face--the way that his eyes flutter closed, how his teeth catch at his lower lip, the pained lines on his forehead. “It was a foolish idea.”

Dean clenches the phone tight in his fist. “No Cas. No it wasn’t.” There are so many other things that he wants to say-- _Please let me come with you, let me stay with you, take me home at the end of the night, wrap me up and never let me go_ \--but Dean settles for the barest approximation of truth. “It was a good idea.” 

Cas’ sigh has the weariness of a man twice his age. “You’re going to be miserable, and my family is going to be awful, and you’re not going to be able to spend the night with your friends--”

“Cas!” Dean has to raise his voice, but only because he can sense Cas spiraling down. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be with you.” 

The unintended truth catches in his throat, burns for a moment, but it’s a clean burn, one that leaves him feeling better afterward. “Cas. Let’s go to your family’s New Year’s party.”

The sound of Cas’ breath disappears. Dean can imagine him pulling the phone away from his face, holding it to his chest. When Cas speaks again, his voice has dipped down into unholy regions, and Dean doesn’t think that he’s imagining the wobble to his words. “You just invited me to my own family’s party.”

Despite everything, Dean smiles. “Well, you were taking too long. If you want something done right…”

“Ask a Winchester to do it.” 

“I guess I”ll have to wear a suit?”

“A nice one,” Cas confirms. “Preferably one that’s extra uncomfortable.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a real dick?”

Cas huffs out a soft laugh and Dean’s heart squirms to hear it. He imagines the faint lines at the corners of Cas’ eyes crinkling as he squints, his lips pulling upwards in a smile. “You do Dean. Frequently.” 

“Yeah well. Guess I must be right then.” 

Cas pauses, and the tone in his voice when he speaks lets Dean know that the conversation has ventured back into the realm of the serious once more. “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“Shut up, all right?” Dean says. “It’s not something that you thank me for. It’s...it’s what you do for your friends.”

_I would do anything for you, I would walk through fire if you asked me to, I never want to leave you and I would go through a hundred, a thousand parties if it meant that you would be able to stay_. 

“Well, thank you, all the same. I’ll be picking you up at around eight-thirty, if that’s fine.”

“Oh no.” Dean might be willing to bend over backward for Cas, but there’s one thing that he’s not willing to compromise on. “No way that we’re going to your family’s shindig in your little shoebox of a car. It’s an occasion for a lady.” 

And wouldn’t it be a sight to see, Baby roaring her way through the Mercedes, Lexuses and BMWs? 

“Oh, I hope that they’re ready for you, Dean Winchester,” Cas laughs. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean hasn’t taken so much care with his appearance since he was seventeen and going to Prom with Cindy Robinson. He finds his best suit and checks the fit of it--it’s a bit snug around the middle but he can still do the top button without much trouble, so it’ll be fine. He picks out a light blue shirt to go with the dark blue of the suit and even ventures into a department store to pick out a pocket square. What the hell has his life even come to that he’s now the kind of guy that buys pocket squares?

He even asks Sam to borrow his ironing board so that he can put creases into his pants. Sam relinquishes the equipment, though not without a few pointed comments. Dean has to clamp his jaw shut so that his words hit his teeth and ricochet backwards down his throat. 

_Sam, I’m in love. I thought that I was in love before, but I’ve never felt anything like this, like being on fire every single second. How do you stand feeling like this all the time, how do you not shatter underneath the joy of it all. How do you live your life, knowing that you’re capable of feeling like this_. 

Instead, Dean says “Happy New Year bitch,” and plants a sloppy wet kiss on Sam’s cheek, just to be a jerk. He gives Jess a much more sedate kiss, though he does pick her up and spin her around the room, just to prove that Sam’s not the only brother with muscles. She laughs with delight, says “Maybe I picked the wrong brother,” like she always does when Dean does something sweet. 

Dean makes his exit, aware that Sam and Jess have their own party to attend. Once home, he starts working on his look for the evening. He irons his pants until the crease is sharp enough to cut flesh. His suit jacket he leaves to hang up, after tugging at the sleeves to get rid of an lingering wrinkles. Dean runs the electric razor over his cheeks, leaving a five o’clock shadow with stubble that’s just the right side of scratchy. 

When he finds himself running the comb through his hair for the fifteenth time, he has to admit that it’s time to back away from the mirror. “It’s just a damn party,” he mumbles to himself, tugging at his collar for the last time. 

Right. Just a party, with Cas’ super wealthy, super powerful, super judgmental family, and Dean, practically tripping over himself every time that he makes eye contact with Cas. If he was watching this story in a movie, then he would know exactly what to expect: a large dose of second-hand embarrassment, a tearful confession, a tender kiss at midnight. But this is real-life and all Dean can hope for is that he doesn’t puke on Mayor Michael’s shoes tonight. 

Once it’s reached eight o’clock, Dean can’t stall anymore. He gives himself one last glance in the mirror. It’s not in his nature to be overly vain of his physical appearance but he has to admit: He looks damn good. 

God, he hopes Cas thinks the same. 

The rumble and purr of Baby’s engine settles him, same as it always does. Dean travels the familiar backroads to Cas’ house and allows his brain to go comfortably fuzzy. He doesn’t know whether he’s building tonight up and making it into something that it’s not: sometimes a tree is just a tree. It’s entirely possible that this is just a family gathering that Cas doesn’t want to face on his own and he asked Dean because he and Dean are friends. Both logic and past experience tell Dean that he shouldn’t expect anything from tonight. 

But then he pays attention to the butterflies currently holding a rave in his gut and thinks: maybe not. For weeks, he’s felt like he and Cas are circling towards an unknown destination. He’s not sure what happens once they get there, but he’s excited to find out. 

For weeks now, he and Cas have been at the point with each other where they walk into each other’s houses without warning, but tonight, Dean knocks at the front door. The Prom date feeling comes back, stronger than ever, as he shifts his weight from one foot to another on the front stoop. Belatedly, he wonders if he should have bought flowers, but he swiftly dismisses that. This isn’t a date. 

Is it? 

What seems like hours later, the door creaks open and Dean experiences what he’s fairly sure is a mild heart attack. 

He’s seen Cas in button downs with ties; he’s well aware of the other man’s waistcoat obsession, and he’s even seen him in a suit. While he appreciates all of those looks, he’s never once been so utterly devastated by a single outfit. It’s just a dark blue pinstripe suit but the way that it clings to Cas’ body--Dean’s mouth goes dry. 

“You clean up all right,” is the best thing that Dean can think of to say because _Jesus fuck please marry me_ might not go over all that well. 

Cas pauses at the door, those stupid huge eyes flicking up and down over Dean’s frame. He fights the urge to squirm or fire off a zippy one-liner and instead appreciates the slow drag of Cas’ eyes. _Take a picture, it’ll last longer_ , almost comes out of his mouth, but the words die an ignominious death when he sees the look in Cas’ eyes. 

It’s fire and ice blended together, interest sharp as the crease on Dean’s pants. It’s not Cas, his weird, goofy friend in front of him anymore--This is a man that Dean’s only gotten glimpses of, incandescent in his rage and enthralling in his captivation. The butterflies in his stomach are no longer raving, they’re going fucking _insane_. 

“If we don’t get going soon, then we’re going to be late,” Dean finally says, speaking around the mountains of sand in his mouth. 

Cas blinks and the stranger disappears. Suddenly it’s just Cas in front of him: disgruntled, impatient, predictable. The only difference between this Cas and regular Cas is that this Cas takes a little more care when he sits in the Impala. 

The feeling intensifies, and Dean knows: he and Cas have been driving for so long but tonight, their exit is in sight.

\--

 

For years, Dean’s driven past the drive into Michael Milton’s house without ever knowing what lurks beyond the immaculately scraped gravel. The yard is all tasteful landscaping, with elegant evergreens lining the drive and obscuring any view of the house. The lawns are smooth and rolling, illuminated by impeccably placed iron-wrought lamps. 

If the grounds are beautiful, then the house is stunning. The white brick gleams in the combination of lamplight and moonlight. Each of the windows gleams smugly at Dean, even the ones on the third floor. Dean feels their weight from his lowly place on the ground and his shoulders prickle with the singular thought: _He doesn’t belong here_.

With an effort, Dean keeps his face steady, even as he guides the Impala to a parking spot between the shining BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis. He runs his hand over her dash. He meant it as reassurance for her, _We’re fine, they can’t judge us_ , but he finds himself taking comfort from the familiar smooth leather of her interior. 

“Dean.” Cas interrupts his moment with a gentle hand on his knee. “You don’t have to do this.” 

The sympathy and understanding in his eyes is enough to send Dean’s world spinning off its axis. He knows, in the wrinkle of Cas’ forehead and the gentle pressure of his hand on his knee--if Dean changed his mind right now, said that he couldn’t do this, and threw gravel on his way out the driveway, Cas wouldn’t be angry at him. He wouldn’t hold it against him, wouldn’t think any less of him at all. It’s that knowledge that has Dean jerking his chin defiantly upward and groping for the door handle. 

“It’s time to shine Cas, come on.” He spares a second to flash a smile at Cas, a dazzling Dean Winchester special, and then he’s out of the car and his twice-shined shoes are crunching against the smooth white gravel of the drive. 

Cas gets out the car, slower than Dean, and there’s still a hint of trepidation in his eyes as he carefully watches Dean. To assuage his doubt, Dean puts a little extra strut in his step--it’s his patented _I’m Dean Winchester, don’t fuck with me_ stride, and if it just happens to make his ass shake a little extra, then that’s his business. And if Cas just happens to be behind him and therefore in perfect position to view his little shimmy, well then. That’s just Cas’ good luck. 

They approach the main entrance together, feet falling in synchronicity upon the smooth white steps leading up to the double doors of the mansion. The ornate detail in the glass acts as the rest of the house does, and chants silently at Dean not your place not your place not your place, but Cas is a solid presence beside him, akin to the Great Wall in terms of permanence. 

“Still time to turn back,” Cas murmurs. His voice is serious but the crinkles at the corner of his eyes let Dean in on the joke. 

“Not a chance,” Dean says. It’s still a struggle to force the confidence through, though it’s not so much of a hardship with Cas next to him. “Now come on. Let’s get this show on the road.” 

From this close, he can feel the effort that Cas puts in to not rolling his eyes. Dean ducks his head to hide his smile in his shoulder, standing up straight as Cas reaches out and pushes the doorbell. Deep inside the house, the chimes ring and Dean’s hand, acting of its own accord, reaches out. His fingers brush against Cas’ before they make contact and interlock. 

Cas’ sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed, nor does his instinctive jerk, but Dean tightens his fingers and refuses to let go. He glances off to the side and watches the bob of Cas’ Adam’s apple. He feels the moment when Cas relaxes and despite everything, Dean grins--a real one this time. His fingers squeeze around Cas’ hand, once, and his heart patters a thrilled _thump-thump_ as Cas squeezes back. 

The door opens and Dean Winchester smiles, ready to devastate the world.

\--

After thirty minutes, Dean decides that he really doesn’t care for rich people. 

It’s the worst kind of reverse snobbery, but honestly, who the hell has actual butlers milling around the party? Or if they’re not butlers, then they’re the best trained waiters that Dean has ever seen: dressed in black tails, they sweep through the rooms bearing shiny silver trays with tiny drinks and concoctions of shrimp and crab. They’re there and gone again before their presence ever registers in Dean’s mind and they all look weirdly identical to him. 

The waiters aren’t really the worst part. The house is as awful as Dean thought it would be: cold and impersonal, every step echoing along the chilly marble floor. Marble. Like it’s a goddamn church. A chandelier overhead throws glistening light through the cavernous entryway, framed by a curving double staircase. It looks like something out of a movie--it looks like the castle in _Beauty and the Beast_. Minus the Beast.

No, instead of the Beast, it’s Mayor Michael gliding through the house, always with a half full glass of champagne in hand and a politician’s smile on his face: wide, beautiful, insincere. He spoke to Dean and Cas when they entered, shook Dean’s hand. It was a strong handshake, delivered with a cool palm and a practiced one-two pump. John always said that you could trust a man based on his handshake, but Dean doesn’t believe that. John had a good handshake too. 

Cas’ eyes go hard when Michael greets him and his spine stiffens when Michael pulls him into a hug that has all the warmth of the tundra. Dean watches, his own hackles rising at Cas’ obvious discomfort. Right then, he knows, with the same instincts that let him know that the Impala’s feeling poorly screaming at him, he knows that it’s going to be a bad night. 

For the first hour and a half it’s innocuous enough. He and Cas mill around the foyer and the two rooms on either side. Dean grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, more for comfort than anything else. Several of Cas’ family members find him and speak to him. Dean tries to remember their names: an older blonde woman named Rachel, a younger cousin named Hael, and the infamous Gabriel, he of the large-screen TV. Dean smiles, nods, shakes some hands, and tries to ignore the swift, assessing glances that flay him from top to bottom. 

“Are you all right?” Cas asks, between a lull of family members. They’re in a quiet corner of the hall, hidden in the intricate paneling of the room. Soft, easy jazz flows through the rooms, though Dean has yet to find either the band or the sound system. The crooning of the saxophone masks the low murmur of their conversation. 

“I’m fine,” Dean answers, automatically brushing off the question. He’s not quite fine, but he’s not the frail thing that Cas seems to think he is. “How are you?” he asks, because out of the two of them, Cas is the one that looks close to falling apart. 

“Fine.” Cas’ voice is clipped, his eyes darting around the room. He looks like a hunted animal. There’s something distrustful and frantic in his posture, the nervous way that his hands skitter over the stem of his glass. “Just…” Cas sighs and meets Dean’s eyes. “Looking forward to this being over.” 

“You want to grab some real food after this?” Dean grins. “Find the closest diner, get some pancakes?” 

Cas examines him, a faint smile lurking in the shadows of his eyes, the soft spaces beside his mouth. “Make it burgers and you’ve got a deal.” The bubbles in the champagne aren’t the only things floating: Dean thinks that he could go all the way to the 20 foot ceiling if he weren’t tethered down by the weight of Cas’ eyes. It happens in the ducking of Cas’ head, the barely audible chuckle, the way that his hair’s started to come loose from its carefully gelled coiffere. 

_Love, love, love_ \--It beats in his heart, through his blood, into his fingertips and lips. It’s amazing that he isn’t glowing with the force of it all. “The greasier the better,” Dean agrees, breathless under Cas’ regard.

“You’ll give yourself indigestion,” Cas says, eyes twinkling with humor and mischief, and even in the midst of the milling family, Dean laughs. 

That was several hours ago. It’s approaching midnight now, just past eleven-fifteen. The general atmosphere of the party has sharpened. There’s an edge here now that wasn’t present an hour ago, the music taking on a hard quality. Cas is gone, snatched away twenty minutes ago by Hester, Michael’s wife. She’s impeccably put together, almost unreal in her flawless skin, shimmering dress, and dangerous heels. Dean can only watch them go and shiver, his comfort ripped away with the absence of Cas. 

He wanders through the foyer, eyes cast deliberately downward. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone without the security of Cas next to him. He listens to the music, now a dolorous beat, poignant piano chords echoing through the rooms until it sinks into his skin. He listens to the plaintive refrain and tries not to wonder at the sudden empty ache in his chest. 

_This year’s love had better last--Heaven knows it's high time_ \--

“Hey...Dean right?” 

Dean startles, the youthful voice shaking him out of his own black thoughts. He turns around to find one of Cas’ cousins--Hael? smiling tentatively at him. 

“Yeah,” he says. His fingers tighten and he becomes aware of the champagne glass in his hand. He downs the liquid in one gulp, hacks as the bitter taste hits his stomach and burbles back up. He turns his wince into a smile. Not an impressive showing for Dean Winchester. 

“I just wanted to say hi.” She’s young, barely older than his kids at school. She can’t have graduated college yet. “It’s just...Normally Castiel brings, ah, what’s her name--”

“Meg?” Dean asks, his stomach swooping and gurgling in a way that has nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with the thought of Meg, wicked, petite, sharp Meg, on Cas’ arm. She’d be perfect at one of these gatherings, with her capability of molding herself to fit any occasion. 

“That’s her,” Hael confirms, happily missing Dean’s minor crisis. “She’s pretty but she’s, I don’t know, kind of scary too? But you seem nice.” 

_You don’t know me kid_ , Dean thinks, wearier than he has a right to be. “Thanks,” he says, contradicting any idea that Hael had about him being ‘nice’. “It’s ah, it’s good to be here.” The words feel like crushed glass tearing his throat on their way out of his mouth. 

“Yeah?” Hael smiles, guilelessly. She’s so young, her midnight-blue dress accentuating her dark hair and pale skin. There’s no mistaking the familial resemblance to Cas. “It’s good to see Castiel. He doesn’t come around hardly at all.” 

“Well you know,” Dean begins, not wanting to crush the naive smile spreading across her face, “he’s just busy with his job and all…”

“Teaching?” Hael’s nose wrinkles in polite distaste. “He has three months off a year. Should be enough time to see his family. It’s not like it’s a real job.” 

Dean’s eyes widen and maybe it is the champagne talking this time when he says, “Now look here kid--”

“Dean-o!” 

The voice breaks through the red haze building in Dean’s vision. He blinks and sees Hael standing in front of him--just a college kid. Pampered, spoiled. No doubt regurgitating whatever her parents have told her about Cas. Doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t get called out on it. 

“For the record,” Dean says, ignoring the insistent presence of Gabriel Milton at his elbow, “Cas works harder than any twenty people that I’ve ever met. He’s one of the kindest, most dedicated teachers that I’ve ever seen. And speaking as someone else in the schools, if you don’t think that teaching is a real job, then I suggest that you try it.”

Hael gapes at him, her eyes gone fishbowl wide, before she turns on her heel and stalks away. Beside him, Gabriel chuckles, a little unkindly. “Already warming up to the in-laws?”

Dean glares, wishing for another glass of champagne. “It’s not like that, you know that.” 

Gabriel shrugs, glancing around the room. Dean looks him over. Expensive, designer suit, shoes that are polished to mirror-like perfection, hair artfully tousled in a way that had to take hours to perfect. The man always seems to have a smile plastered across his face, which means that he can’t be trusted. It’s impossible to think of Cas, careful, considerate Cas, growing up in the same house that raised this man. 

“Maybe not,” Gabriel muses, eyes glinting with wicked mirth. “Doesn’t mean that you’re not trying to make your last name Milton-Winchester. A hint? Probably not best to start your integration into the family by beating up on the younger members of the clan.” 

Dean flushes. He’s not equipped for this, the swift verbal jabs and vicious cuts disguised as friendliness. “What do you want?”

“The same thing that everyone wants.” With a grace born of years of practice, Gabriel snags a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Dean isn’t fast enough and can only watch the shining tray disappear into the crowd. “World peace, a million dollars, the happiness of our family.” 

Dean’s jaw aches from clenching it so hard. He rakes his gaze over Gabriel once more, decides, fuck it. He’s probably never going to see this man again, might as well leave everything on the table. 

“If you want Cas to be happy, then you could stop forcing him to come to these shindigs. You know that he’s miserable here.” 

Gabriel takes a delicate sip from his flute. “No can do Dean. I’m not the _pater familias_. That would be your great and glorious mayor. As far as the Milton name is concerned, whatever he says, goes.” 

Dean laughs, bitter and disbelieving. “And you expect me to believe that you all just dance to his tune? I’ve met the man, he doesn’t look like that good of a puppet-master.” 

“Believe what you want.” Gabriel’s voice goes hard. When his hazel eyes snap with temper, for the first time, Dean can believe that this man is related to Castiel. “I got lucky—got a good enough job that I don’t have to dance unless I like the beat. The rest of them?” Gabriel gestures to the milling crowd of overdressed, attractive socialites. “Michael controls the money, so he controls the family.” 

“Cas doesn’t need money.” The reply comes so fast that Dean would feel naive, if he weren’t so sure that he was right. What does Cas need money for? He has his job, and his degrees assure that his paycheck is significantly more than Dean’s. 

“Oh.” The single sound is mocking and yet pitying. “Oh, he hasn’t told you yet.” 

A tendril of doubt slithers down Dean’s spine. He hates the look in Gabriel’s eyes, the one that so plainly says _I know something you don’t know_. Every part of him rebels at being in someone else’s debt, of having to ask for help. “Told me what?” 

An expression shifts across Gabriel’s face, a shadow underneath the water, and maybe he’s going to tell Dean the truth, maybe he’s going to tell him to take a hike, but none of that matters anymore, not when Castiel’s voice, thunderous in its anger, reverberates through the foyer. 

Dean forgets about Gabriel, forgets about Hael, and the rest of the Milton family. He pushes his way past a woman in a cocktail dress. He might cause her to spill her drink; an indignant shriek follows him as he makes his way through the foyer and the rooms on either side, where the guests all wear polite, identical expressions of shocked distaste. He thinks he can also hear the sound of Gabriel’s laughter, sharp and cutting, but he’s too busy tracking down the dying echoes of Cas’ voice. 

He finds it soon enough when a door flies open, so hard that it hits the opposite wall and bounces back. Unburdened by the barrier of the doorway, voices echo through the narrow hallway leading away from the entryway. 

“--no right to do this, you know that she can’t help it--”

“Castiel.” Michael’s voice, while raised, still has the pretense of sounding soothing. If Dean weren’t determined to hate the man then he might even believe the honeyed promise of it. “Castiel, you have to understand--”

“I understand fine.” Dean’s close enough that he can peek into the room. It’s small, intimate: a room where work is done, rather than visitors received. Pictures of Michael and his wife line the walls, along with commendations from various charities and news outlets. Gleaming book spines proclaim knowledge, while the huge oak paneled desk proclaims power. All in all, it’s a monument to narcissism. 

In the middle of it all stands Cas, his spine soldier straight and fists clenched at his side. If Dean weren’t sure of Cas’ stance on violence (unacceptable in most circumstances, excepting self-defense and Nazis), then Dean would think that Cas is ready to take a swing at his cousin. “This is it, isn’t it?”

Michael’s face contorts in sympathy. The man is a masterful actor because Dean can almost believe him when he reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Castiel, I’m not sure what you mean. It’s just with the downsizing of the company, we’ve had to make certain, regrettable, changes--”

“That’s bullshit, you know it!” Dean wants to cheer when Cas slaps away Michael’s hand. Off to the side, Hester makes a small noise of surprise and covers her mouth with her hands. It’s all so false that Dean wants to vomit. “This is your version of revenge, this is your way of trying to get back at me--”

“You overestimate your importance.” When Michael’s voice takes on the cold, steel tone, Dean can see why a newspaper once called him ruthless. “I don’t have time to take on petty personal vendettas, or ‘revenge’ as you want to call it. Perhaps, if you’d quit this ridiculous impersonation, then I would have more time to spend on my personal affairs. As it is, I don’t have enough time to oversee the running of the city as well as the company, so we’ve had to downsize, which, as I’ve just told you, requires change.” 

“You,” Cas hisses. Even from his vantage point, Dean can see that he’s almost vibrating with fury. “You soulless bastard, you’re willing to hurt…” Cas’ throat bobs as he makes an effort to compose himself. “She worshiped the ground that you walked on and you’re willing to hurt her, just to get back at me?” 

Cas’ rage drains as he speaks, leaving him smaller, more vulnerable. Like this, Dean can almost imagine what he was like as a child, shuffled to this house, with Michael playing lord of the manor. Defenseless. Dependent. It’s enough to send Dean into the room. 

Cas jerks in surprise when Dean’s fingers wrap around his wrist. His grip is probably too punishing, but Dean doesn’t spare him an apologetic look. His eyes remain focused on Michael's face. Mayor Michael looks at him consideringly, like he just watched a lizard stand up on its legs and start reciting poetry.

“Excuse us,” Dean says, his voice dripping with false politeness. He tugs once on Cas’ wrist. “Cas, come on.” Cas remains rooted to the spot, glancing between Michael and Dean. Dean pulls again, hard enough to knock Cas off his balance. “Cas, come on. Let’s get out of here.” 

Michael’s face remains in the simulation of caring but something sly lurks in the corners of his smile and eyes. “Castiel. I ask you--Was any of it doing any good? Was any of it making a difference?”

Cas rolls his shoulders back, shaking off Dean’s hand. He looks righteous, he looks stunning. “You can go to hell,” he says, quietly, simply. He whirls on his heel and storms out of the room. 

It’s like he took all the oxygen with him. From her position on the sidelines, Hester makes a strangled squeaking noise, one that ends abruptly when Michael cuts a glance to her. He turns his attention back to Dean, eyes flicking over him. 

“What he said,” Dean says, jerking a thumb at Cas’ disappearing figure. He turns and walks away, only to pause at the door. “Oh, and by the way?” He takes in Michael’s posture, the smug surety of it, the arrogant cock of his head. “I’m not voting for you come November.” 

He grins, wide and insolent, before he walks out into the hallway. While he can’t find Cas, it’s easy enough to follow his trail: all he has to do is listen to the quiet pockets of whispers which Cas left in his wake. He follows them through the great room, with its leather couches, vaulted ceilings, and marble fireplace, to the wide glass doors opening to the balcony. No one takes advantage of the space, too afraid of the Kansas winter bite to appreciate the views. 

No one except one person.

The wind snaps at Dean the moment he opens the door and steps outside. He shivers in the flimsy protection of his suit but he pushes that discomfort to the back of his mind. Right now, he has more important problems to deal with. 

Cas stands with his back towards Dean, overlooking the lawn. The lights from inside wash over the landscaping and send macabre shadows spiking across the grass. Cas’ face is shrouded in darkness. The only hint of his mood is in the tight curl of his fists, resting against the railing of the balcony. 

“Cas?” His voice falls tentative in the dark night. Cas never budges from his position. “Cas, it’s freezing, why don’t you come inside?” Dean’s eyes catch the shuddering movement of Cas’ shoulders, while his ears pick up the shaky breaths. “Or we can go? I still owe you some burgers, right?”

When Cas doesn’t respond, Dean creeps closer, close enough to splay his hand across the expanse of Cas’ back. Underneath his hand, he can feel the jump of Cas’ breath, the attempts at deep breathing broken up by short, angry exhalations. “Cas?” Dean asks, his thumb moving in ineffective strokes over the smooth fabric of Cas’ suit jacket. 

He’s unprepared for Cas to whirl around, face contorted into a rictus of anger and confusion. He actually takes half a step backwards before his brain kicks in, screaming at him to _comfort love give give love_ \--

“I just, I hate this, so much, this family and the goddamned hypocrisy--” Cas is babbling, in a way that Dean’s never seen before, desperate in a way that Dean hoped he would never see. “I just don’t see how people could be so hateful, so cruel--”

“Cas,” Dean says, helpless, fingers curling around the heat of Cas’ bicep. “Cas, I’m sorry--”

“And is it so wrong for me to have free will? To do what I want to do?” Cas’ eyes are wide, asking a question that Dean can’t possibly answer. “To be happy?” Cas’ chest heaves with emotion. Dean’s chest rises and falls in tandem. He’s trapped within the depths of Cas’ eyes, drowning. He’s been drowning for weeks, he never wants air again. 

Cas blinks, like he’s waking up from a dream, like he’s moving underwater. He looks at Dean like no one else ever has--like Dean is the answer to every question, like Dean is more than just the sum of his parts. Cas’ voice is soft, wondering, as his eyes search Dean’s face. 

“Is it so wrong for me to want to be happy?”

For a single, blissful moment, the world stops and fades, and all that remains is Dean and Castiel. 

Far away, in the neighboring suburb, fireworks start to explode, illuminating the night with shades of red, yellow, and green. From inside, comes the chant of “Nine, eight, seven--” Stars blaze in the inky Kansas sky. They’re reflected in the dark depths of Cas’ pupils, fireworks bursting. Dean could ignite from the sparks. 

_Love love love_ beats in his heart, in his hands, in his eyes. _Is it so wrong for me to want to be happy_? The question, raw and flayed, beats alongside his heart. Dean’s hand slides down from Cas’ bicep, down to his elbow, his forearm, and finally to his hand. Fingertips numb from the cold, he strokes the back of Cas’ hand until it uncurls. Dean’s fingers find the soft webbing between Cas’ long, capable fingers, wrap tightly around his hand until their calms are pressed together. 

“Dean,” Cas whispers, his breath escaping his mouth in a puff of white air. “Dean, I--” 

Without releasing Cas’ hand, Dean moves closer until he can feel the heat from Cas’ chest against his own. From a distance, he hears the cheers that herald a new year, new beginnings. He remembers his plan like it belonged to someone else--the slow, night-long seduction, culminating in a cheeky kiss, one that could be brushed off as a joke. Enough to keep Dean’s traitorous heart appeased. 

Dean’s free hand finds its way to Cas’ face, fingers curling around the back of his neck and tangling in the soft hairs, while his thumb strokes along the line of Cas’ cheekbone. _Love love love_ \-- “Cas,” he whispers, the hope and promise of a new year held in the syllable. 

Cas’ lips are soft underneath his, chapped places catching lightly as Dean tilts his head to the side. His heart races, beating for freedom against his ribs. Cas’ lips are the only thing keeping him aloft, the slick push and pull. He pulls Cas closer, takes his lower lip between his. Runs a hint of teeth against the plump flesh. A soft, wounded noise travels from Cas to him. 

With a soft smack, they separate. Cas stares at him with wide eyes, his thumb running wonderingly over his bottom lip. _That lip was just in my mouth_ , Dean thinks, giddy. They’re still holding hands. 

“Cas, I know--” Repercussions start to fall around him, but Cas silences his protests with a single finger on Dean’s lips. Without his permission, Dean’s tongue flicks out to lick at the pad. He thrills at the way Cas’ eyes darken, the tiny shiver which travels through his body. 

“Not...Please, can we just…” Cas’ hand curls around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him down. Their foreheads rest together. The tip of Cas’ nose is cold where it brushes against Dean’s cheek. “Please.” 

Dean understands the plea and even as the last rasp leaves Cas’ mouth, he’s there to swallow it, his lips insistent against Cas’. Cas groans and Dean swallows the sound. Their hands are everywhere--Cas’ elbow, a strong hand cupping the back of Dean’s head, at the small of Dean’s back, pulling him closer. A hint of tongue. 

He kisses Cas until his lips are slick and raw, until his knees are weak. He kisses Cas like he’s wanted to for weeks, kisses Cas like he wants to keep him. When they part, Dean brushes feather-soft kisses to the corners of Cas’ eyes, the bow of his upper lip, the soft skin of his temple. He brushes kisses over Cas’ lips like healing, like a benediction. Cas’ fingers drift over his jawline, down to his neck and shoulders, like he’s reassuring himself that Dean is real. That’s he’s here. That he’s not leaving. 

Tomorrow, Dean knows, will be filled with over-thinking, and maybe regrets. Maybe something wonderful. It’s a mystery to him, as unfathomable as the pinpricks of light above them. What is real is this, Cas warm against his chest, teeth pulling at his lower lip, tongue brushing playfully against his. 

Dean pulls Cas close to him, brushes his lips over the stubble on Cas’ cheek, before returning to his rightful spot at Cas’ mouth. All the while, between the soft smack of their lips, the pleased hums rumbling through their chests, the words of that stupid song keep repeating in Dean’s head, like a promise, like a prayer. 

_This year’s love had better last_ ….

  
**end Part I**. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	12. let me save you from this wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intermezzo and a talk that does not quite go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not done! Since this was getting so long, I honestly thought about splitting it in half, but then I decided against it. We die at 200k words like men. 
> 
> Thank you for all your help and support! Let's watch these two emotionally inept idiots make bad decisions!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_**intermezzo i** _

 

After four and a half sleepless hours of tossing and turning, Castiel is no closer to a solution than he was when Dean dropped him off at his house. 

He glares at his ceiling like it let him down. They had no prior arrangement, but still. It’s been almost five hours at this point. Something should have come to him. 

Against his will, his lips rub together. They’re still tender from a few hours before, chapped and swollen. It hurts to press them together, so he does so, relishing the faint twinge of pain. His thumb makes a leisurely journey over the territory of his bottom lip as he replays the previous night. 

The feel of Dean’s lips on his, the catch and burn of stubble on his chin. And the sounds... _Christ_ , the sounds that he’d made--soft, and surprised, and pleased. Tiny little grunts when Castiel’s hands tugged at the short strands of hair at the base of his neck, a soft moan when Cas’ mouth opened easily underneath his, a strangled whimper when he’d nipped at Dean’s bottom lip. 

Last night, Dean had dropped him off, and Castiel had stumbled to his bedroom. He’d fallen into bed, aroused and conflicted, and helplessly fucked his hand into a breathless orgasm. It broke another piece of protocol he’d set up. Just another failure in a long, long night of failures. 

But fuck, it’d been good, replaying those sounds, fingers running over his lips and dipping into his mouth. He’d thought about what other activities could pull those sounds out of Dean’s throat--what if he’d followed his instincts and mapped a path down Dean’s throat? What if he’d slipped Dean’s shirt from his shoulders, and discovered if those freckles were really all over? What if he’d fallen to his knees, pushed a place for himself between those bowlegs--

Castiel groans as his dick gives a distinct jerk of interest. Ridiculous. He’s not in his twenties anymore; this sort of thing shouldn’t even be possible. But that’s Dean Winchester for you: always turning impossibilities into unlikely probabilities. 

“Stop it,” he growls at his groin. His dick remains resolutely half-hard but doesn’t venture any further beyond those borders. Fuck Dean Winchester anyway (he steadfastly ignores the small voice screaming in his head _Yes please fuck Dean Winchester_ ). Fuck him, and his kindness, and his impulsiveness, and his goddamn perfect lips. 

He’d been doing so well, and that's what makes him angry. For months now, he’s sat beside Dean, felt the warmth of his body next to his, and never made the slightest indication that he’d like nothing more than the straddle the man next to him. He'd cuddled up next to Dean, felt the solidity of his body. Experienced the strength of his arms, the surety of his grip. Everything about Dean reminds Castiel of bedrock, of granite. Of something unshakable in its foundations. 

And then, just because he’d been stupid and angry, he chose to drive a bulldozer straight into that foundation. 

Castiel rubs his hands over his face, relishing the bright spark of pain as the heels of his hands dig into his eyes. Tiny spots dance at the corners of his vision, but even when he releases the pressure, he still has no real solution. 

Damn Michael as well. Damn him, with his sanctimonious sympathy, words dripping with unctuous concern. Even now, it sets his blood to boil, to think of Michael’s arm on his shoulder. The weight of it had been a reminder: _You’re part of this family. You can never get out_. 

He’s put off dealing with what Michael said, losing himself instead in the whirlwind of Dean, but here, in the grey, early-morning light, he can’t run from it anymore. 

_We have to change the insurance policies of the company_ , Michael had said, from behind his ostentatious desk, Hester hovering over his shoulder like some ineffective angel. _We don’t have the resources to keep the current plan_. Castiel pays attention to stocks the same as anyone else, and he could tell any interested observer than Milton Enterprises is doing fine. It’s not a lack of resources funding this change. No, this is spite. 

Change the insurance policies. Michael will no longer have Anna on his cushy policy. No more facilities or homes which were tailored specifically to her needs. _She’s not getting the full benefit of those programs_ , Michael had continued, not so much brutally honest as needlessly cruel. _At this point, we’re just throwing good money after bad_. 

Those clinics and homes were all that stood between his sister and homelessness for so long. Between her and who knew what kind of fate. And now…

Castiel’s stomach twists as he ponders his next move. He’ll have to go to Human Resources first thing after the holiday, and see if there’s any exception to their enrollment policy. He’ll have to add Anna as a dependent to his insurance. His rates are going to skyrocket, but that’s fine. He spent a good portion of his working years setting aside a rainy day fund. If need be, he can sell the house and downsize into an apartment. 

Of course, the easiest solution would be for Anna to stay with him, but that’s a pipe-dream. She hasn’t stayed in the same place for longer than six months since she turned eighteen. He remembers being a gangly teenager, pulling at her thin wrist and screaming at her to _Stay, please, please, don't go, don't leave me alone--_. She'd smiled, patted his cheek, and slipped out of his grip like she'd never been more tangible than mist. And Castiel was left watching her disappear into the gaping maw of a cab, her red hair the only spark of color that his eyes could pick out. She'd left him to finish the last years of high school alone, never knowing where she was, or whether she was dead on the side of some dirt road. He'd sat captive at dinners and listened to the subtle digs at her and his father, their unreliable natures, and how the Milton family should have been canonized for taking on the immense burden of supporting Castiel. 

He twists the bedsheets around his fingers. Stupid, to still care about something that was over ten years ago, but those scars still twinge and pull. More so now than ever. He wishes, selfishly and helplessly, that Anna was normal, that the biggest problem his sister posed was dropping into family reunions with a weird boyfriend, or a kid with a yuppie name. 

What an awful thing to wish. Castiel hates himself, but at the same time, tucks the urge right into the dark, cruel places of his heart. 

_I wish things could be different. If only there were someone at the company, who could take a firmer handle on matters, then maybe we wouldn’t have to make these changes…_

Damn him. Damn Michael and his blackmail and his extortion and his petty, vicious revenge. Castiel knows his cousin. Ever since he went against Michael’s wishes, he always expected some form of revenge. For a while, he was foolish enough to think that obligatory attendance at holiday gatherings was Michael’s way of making him miserable. Now he understands that those gatherings were nothing more than a diversion, a way for Michael to amuse himself while he figured out how to twist the knife so that it would hurt the most. 

Michael is a connoisseur of pain and Castiel has been left bleeding. He knows what is expected of him--He is supposed to quit his job and come limping back to the warm bosom of the family. The rebel, the prodigal son, fallen from grace, back to beg forgiveness. And of course, Michael would be waiting with open arms, ready to grant it--as long, of course, as Castiel did what was expected. The family’s perfect soldier, ready to do whatever is necessary for a group of people who never gave more than half a damn about him. 

Fuck that. 

Of course, his attitude doesn't come with any real solutions. His only plan will most likely bankrupt him within a year: his current insurance plan does well enough for him alone, but adding another person with copious needs will drain his bank account faster than a leaky sieve. But there’s nothing else that he can do. 

He made a promise. After Dick, after the wounds, the hurt, and the pain that still managed to wake up him in the middle of the night, even now, he promised himself that he’d never have anything to do with Milton Enterprises. Castiel would never be involved with the cutthroat world that would gladly leave another person shattered and wounded, just for the satisfaction of closing another deal. That world, capricious and greedy, belongs to Michael and Dick. Castiel’s world, the one that he tried to build for himself, is a kinder, gentler world. 

Dean fits into that world. 

No matter how he tries to hide or deny it, Dean is _soft_. He’s seen the way that Dean talks to his family, heard intimated what he gave up for Sam. He sees how Dean treats his friends, his students. Unconsciously, Castiel’s fingers find his lips once more. 

The thing is, it would be so easy, to be with Dean. It would be so goddamn easy, and that’s what’s terrifying. Castiel’s seen easy before--April was easy, Dick was easy. He knows, he knows dammit, that Dean isn’t near the same, but that doesn’t solve anything. Stupid, to let the past dictate what he does, but how can it not? What’s to guarantee that Dean won’t suddenly change his mind, become tired of the baggage which follows Castiel like a curse? Castiel hides his failings, desperately and obsessively, but if he let Dean get that close, there’s no way that he wouldn’t find them, no way that he wouldn’t reject him out of sight. It would be easier to just cut contact, try to go back to the way they were in September: cautious colleagues and nothing more. 

But he can’t. 

Dean crawled into those empty places and made a home for himself. Castiel can no sooner cast him out than he could cast away his own left hand. Even the thought sends a sharp pain rocketing through him. 

If he were in the habit of asking for help, he would be on the phone with Meg. He could call Balthazar, but other than being several time zones away, Balthazar is always supremely unhelpful in matters of his sex life ( _Forget them, come over and let me blow you_ was the usual brand of advice he received, despite the fact that they hadn’t been an item for at least five years). Meg would be the better choice, but she steadfastly refuses to give any kind of advice ( _Just because I teach Psychology doesn’t mean that I’m going to be your freebie therapist_ was her oft-repeated refrain). Besides, Castiel already knows her opinions on Dean Winchester. 

It was several weeks ago, after Thanksgiving, when Castiel couldn’t seem to let more than a few days pass without seeing Dean. After knowing how Dean’s body felt pressed against his, it had been impossible for Castiel to not touch him, not feel the heat of his skin, the subtle twitch of his muscles. This night, however, he was with Meg, nursing a relationship that had been too long neglected. 

Dean had still appeared in the form of a text message flashing on his phone’s screen. Castiel had swiftly pushed the lock button on his phone, but Meg always seemed to have a supernatural sense of things that would embarrass him. “Dean Winchester, huh?” she drawled, one eyebrow performing a slow climb up her forehead. “You two have been linked at the, uh, everything lately.” 

“We co-coach Scholastic Bowl and we co-designed our Senior Capstone projects,” Castiel mutters, tossing back his shot. The liquor burns down his throat, but it’s a good, clean burn. “Of course we’re going to be spending time together.”

“Mhmm.” Meg’s dark eyes squint suspiciously at him over the rim of her glass. She takes a deceptively delicate sip, which doesn’t fool him in the slightest. “Thank you, by the way, for sticking me with Bal for that project. You know how much I love European douchebags.” 

Castiel murmurs all the necessary apologies, but they’re meaningless platitudes. As much as he loves Meg, he doesn’t regret choosing Dean, not when it’s led to so many nights at his house, curled into the couch that smells faintly of his cologne. “I just never thought that you liked them dumb and pretty,” Meg says, nonchalantly, but in the way that’s looking for a reaction. 

“Dean isn’t stupid,” Castiel says hotly, which, he realizes a second too late, was Meg’s whole purpose. She smiles, shark-like, and takes a triumphant gulp of her drink. “Which of course, you knew.” 

“Just admit it Clarence,” she coos, leaning close enough that her hair winds its way onto his shoulder, “you’ve got it bad for a pair of pretty eyes.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says shortly. No use lying to Meg, not when she knows him inside and out. “You know.” 

Meg rolls her eyes. She’d been able to accept his rule of ‘no relationships’ easily enough, enjoying the physical aspects of their friendship to the fullest extent, but, for whatever reason, she wants to see him settled. If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d think that she took on a bet to have him married off by age thirty-five. “Clarence,” she says, her tone a red flag of warning. “You do know that not everyone in the world is out to screw you over, right?”

“I haven’t seen empirical data of that, so your conclusion is unfounded.” Castiel waves two fingers at the bartender, nodding in thanks when their glasses are refilled. 

“Swear to god,” Meg growls, real irritation creeping into her tone. “Look, I know that Crazypants fucked you up, and I know all about Appropriately Named Dick but you also know that Dean isn’t either one of them.” 

Castiel rolls his glass between his fingers and fumes. He is, in fact, aware that Dean doesn’t resemble April or Dick in the slightest--he doubts that Dean would ever make an attempt on his life the morning after they slept together--but the scared undergrad in him still shrinks back in terror from the thought of anything resembling a relationship. 

“Look,” Meg finally says, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, “take my advice, don’t take my advice, but the boy looks at you like you hung the damn moon. He’s too pretty for his own good, but at least he’ll look good in the wedding photos.” 

When even Meg doesn’t object to someone, you have to take notice. 

But still...Castiel sighs and rolls over in his bed. It’s still too early to text Dean, though his fingers itch with the desire to do so. He needs to put a stop to this thing and do it quickly. He learned long ago that relationships mean shackles, mean vulnerability, mean pain. No matter what, someone will want something from him that he’s either unable or unwilling to give. 

_No one’s ever going to know you like I know you...No one’s ever going to be able to see all the parts of you like I do...You know that without me you’re worthless_. 

Now, in hindsight, he can recognize Dick’s words for what they were. But, eight years ago, when he was too young to know the difference, he sank into their sweet poison, and believed the promises of love, even when he saw that there were razorblades attached to the words. Castiel cut himself to ribbons on those words, and in the end, lost almost everything. 

Dean isn’t that. He knows that. He knows that. And yet.

He won’t pretend that it makes any sense; he knows that it doesn’t. He can’t be in a relationship with Dean: he’s too damaged, too broken, too wrong to ever be good for another person. He can’t date Dean, but neither can he let him go. 

Groaning, Castiel rolls over in bed and waits for time to pass so that he can talk to Dean. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For Dean, January 1st is traditionally a day involving sleeping in, light meals, and the downing of various over the counter drugs to stave off the pounding headache. He’s woken up on couches, in bathtubs, and, on one memorable occasion, on someone’s stairs. This New Year’s Day is different from others: he’s not hungover for starters, and he wakes up in his own bed. 

The sinking feeling of regret is still the same. 

He kissed Cas. Not a friend kiss that could have been easily laughed away, but a real kiss. It was a curl your toes in your shoes, feel the electricity rocketing through your body, turn your knees weak and your fingertips numb, oxygen not a priority, run my fingers through your hair, moan into your mouth, touch your tongues, touch the stars, lose your mind kind of kiss. It was the kind of kiss that sends people to an early grave, the kind of kiss that you don’t recover from. 

Dean’s not sure he wants to recover. 

It’s late morning by the time he drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He lets the hot water beat down on his shoulders, relishing the heat and the water pressure on his tender skin. While in the shower, his cock moves from half-hard to fully stiff, reliving the memories of last night. Fuck, but Cas’ mouth--The way they’d fit together, desperate, and warm, and effortless. Cas’ chest against his, the feel of Cas’ hand on his neck, on his hip, pulling him closer. The way that Cas’ tongue traced his lower lip, flicking deliberately against the plump flesh until Dean opened his mouth. 

His hand wraps around his dick and it doesn’t take long before he’s panting, remembering the insistent pull of Cas’ fingers against his hair. How easily control ebbed and flowed between the two of them, like a shifting, fluid dance. How the moans fell from Cas’ lips, the soft, wounded noise he made when Dean’s fingers yanked on his hair. The soft inhalation as Dean’s thumb swept over the vulnerable skin of his throat. 

He groans through his release, his free hand slapping against the tile so that he doesn’t keel over. Ridiculous, he thinks, as he finishes his shower, that he can come from a kiss. Not even a kiss, the _memory_ of a kiss. But it’s not just a kiss, it’s a kiss from Castiel and that makes all the difference in the world. 

Wrapped up in his robe, Dean winds his way downstairs. He eats cereal and contemplates his next move. His phone is suspiciously empty of messages, other than the customary mass-texts wishing him a Happy New Year. He would have thought that maybe there would be something from Cas, but maybe it’s too early for him. 

Maybe Cas doesn’t want to talk to him. 

Dean’s fairly certain that last night violates any of the careful, unspoken rules that they’ve created between each other. He doesn’t think that Cas would completely cut contact with him, but maybe. Cas is a weird guy and even now, Dean can’t predict how he will react to something. 

After breakfast, Dean wanders around the house. He half-heartedly cleans some of the post-holiday mess, and even ventures to look at his lesson plans before he gives it up as a lost cause. School starts again in two days; he needs to look at his plans, but today he can’t be bothered. 

Finally, at one in the afternoon, his phone buzzes with a message. 

_Dean are you awake_? 

Dean taps out a quick answer in the affirmative and his phone lights up with a reply almost immediately afterwards, like Cas was waiting for him to respond. 

_I’ll be over in a few minutes_. 

\--

It takes more than a few minutes; Cas’ house is on the other side of town. The commute time gives Dean just enough time to run through every possible consequence. Cas could come in and punch him in the face. Cas might attack him with his lips. Cas might suddenly decide that he only communicates in Latin. Who knows, as mentioned previously, Cas is a weird dude. 

What happens is none of those things. What happens is, there’s a timid little rap on his storm door, one that rattles Dean enough to shout “Coming” like some 1950’s housewife. He opens the door to reveal Cas leaning against the frame. 

He’s looked better. His hair is less ‘artfully disheveled’ and more ‘rat’s nest’. His clothes are rumpled, and the bags under his eyes look vaguely threatening in the afternoon light. It makes Dean feel a little better, to know that there’s an outward presentation of the turmoil currently playing hell with his digestive system. 

“Come on,” Dean says, after a painfully awkward moment. Cas steps in, unsure as a stray cat. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, but there’s a nervous, jittery energy about him that sets Dean’s nerves on edge. Dean ventures into his living room, but Cas stays poised at the edge of the kitchen, closer to the door. He looks like he’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

Neither one of them makes the first move to speak, and the silence becomes a palpable presence between them, bloated and awful. It’s almost enough to have Dean retreating back upstairs and closing the door behind him. God, if he knew it was going to be this bad, then he never would have gone outside for Cas last night, never would have put his lips on him…

“This is awkward,” Cas finally says, and despite everything, Dean chokes back a laugh. Trust Cas to cut right to the quick. 

“You want anything to drink?” Dean asks, and even though Cas says no, his eyes lose their flat, glazed hue and return to the shade that Dean’s become familiar with. Silence falls between them again, but it lacks the hard, jagged edges of before. Now it’s merely uncomfortable. 

Dean sits on his couch and Cas hesitantly follows him into the room. He perches on the edge of the loveseat, his hands clasped between his knees, like a supplicant at prayer. Dean tries not to stare but it’s almost impossible. Cas’ leg twitches, shaking his arms up and down. 

“Look I’m sorry--”

“Man, this really sucks--” Dean pauses, looking at Cas. “What do you mean you’re sorry?” Fear seizes him and it manifests as anger. “The hell do you mean that you’re _sorry_?”

It’s his worst fears coming true--Cas never wanted him, it was nothing more than a stupid lark to him, and now Cas is coming to him with his damned _pity_? 

“That was the wrong thing to say,” Cas says, quietly. Dean almost misses the words as his anger steamrollers on. 

“You’re damn right it was the wrong thing to say!” Dean’s fingers rake through his hair and he gets up off the couch. His feet start wearing a path through the carpet in the living room. “Look, you might be able to pretend like last night never happened--” 

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Cas asks, a hint of heat in his voice. 

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Dean, it isn’t.” Cas stands up, eyes narrowed. He advances towards Dean, who takes an unconscious step back. “I wish that I could--”

“Way to make a guy feel appreciated Cas, you’re a real prince--”

“Because maybe it would be the better choice, for both of us, to forget that it ever happened, but I can’t! I don’t want to!”

Cas’ voice raises on the last words, his fists clenching at his sides. He looks startled, and little guilty, and Dean realizes that he never meant to say the last part aloud. 

Dean acts first, thinks later, and sometimes it gets him in trouble, and maybe that day will be today. But he still can’t regret it, not when his thumbs scrape over the lingering stubble on Cas’ neck. Cas tastes different, in the light of day--the lingering bitterness of champagne replaced by the minty hint of toothpaste--but he still kisses the same. Dean’s hands cup either side of Cas’ face, keeping him there, though Cas doesn’t seem in any hurry to move. 

“You stupid sumabitch,” Dean whispers against Cas’ lips. Cas’ fingers wrap around Dean’s wrists, more anchor than warning. “Didn’t you say that you deserve to be happy?” His tongue sweeps over Cas’ lower lip and Cas groans. It’s more of an answer than Dean thought he would get. “Let me make you happy,” Dean says, only half aware of what he’s saying. “Cas, Cas,” he groans as lips travel over his cheek to the cut of his jaw. “C’mon Cas, let me make you happy--” 

“Dean. Dean.” Cas’ warm breath ghosts over Dean’s ear, sending delightful shivers skittering down his spine. “ _Dean_.” His voice takes on a hint of urgency and he steps back from Dean. He looks wrecked, destroyed, and Dean’s the one responsible. 

“It doesn’t have to be a mistake.” Cas warily surveys him. Dean licks his lips. For someone whose job it is to teach the English language, he has a shortage of words to express the tumult of emotion battering at his innards. “If you don’t want it to be.” Dean takes a step forward and this time it’s Castiel who takes a half-step backwards. “You wanted to be happy,” Dean whispers, his voice thick in his throat. 

_Let me make you happy_. 

Castiel’s throat bobs as he swallows. It looks painful. “What if,” he rasps, before he shakes his head. He tries again. “What if I told you that I didn’t deserve to be happy?” 

Dean rocks back on his heels. He’s stunned, shattered. “You...everyone deserves to be happy Cas. It’s not some Philosophy 101 question.” 

Cas keeps his eyes fixed on Dean’s, even as his head jerks minutely. “I don’t...Dean. I can’t pursue...There’s many reasons why…” A pained look crosses Cas’ face. “I can’t be what you want Dean. I can’t give you a relationship.”

Dean learned long ago not to expect anything from this life. Any time you start thinking that the world owes you something, you get beat down and broken ten ways from Sunday. He knows this, has lived the truth of it every day of his life, but still. It hurts to hear Cas say that. 

“I’m sorry Dean,” and the damnedest thing is, Dean believes him. Cas’ eyes shine in the late afternoon sunlight glancing through the windows and Dean thinks back to what he asked before-- _What if I told you that I didn’t deserve to be happy_?

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Dean says. He knows that it’s a bad idea, but he can’t stop himself. He already knows that his sleep is going to be haunted by the heavy, disappointment-laden words of _don’t deserve to be happy_. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say but--”

“What if I didn’t want a relationship either?”

It’s the boldest lie that Dean’s ever told. He’s had plenty of time to think about it and he knows that there’s nothing more he would want than to be able to look at Cas and think, with no reservations, _He’s mine_. To be able to curl up next to him at the end of the night, share lazy mornings in bed, hell, even go to the goddamn Farmer’s Market like they’re a couple of hippies. He wants to take Cas out to dinner. He wants to sit next to Cas at Sam’s wedding. 

Cas’ squint is a cold, suspicious thing. “I don’t understand.”

“You know that I’m not relationship material either.” This is not entirely a lie. Dean’s never had a relationship which lasted longer than a year. According to Sam, this is because he is an asshole who self-sabotages and has no idea of commitment. According to Dean, it’s because he just hasn’t found what he was looking for. Problem solved: he found what he was looking for. It’s just that what he was looking for wasn’t necessarily looking for him. 

Cas’ shoulders turn in, making him look smaller and vulnerable. “What are you trying to say?” If Dean didn’t know better, then he would say that Cas looks disappointed, but that doesn’t make any sense. From Day One, Cas has been insisting that he doesn’t want a relationship. Why would Dean agreeing with him suddenly be a bone of contention? 

“I’m trying to say that it doesn’t have to be an all or nothing kind of deal.” Bad idea, bad idea, god, this is such a bad idea, but his mouth is a runaway train and he’s doomed to sit on the sidelines and watch it mow down any chance of happiness. “We don’t have to be in a relationship to do...this.” He waves his hand vaguely between himself and Cas. 

A sardonic smile flirts with Cas’ face. “If you can’t say it, then you shouldn’t be doing it.” 

“Friends with benefits. Friends who occasionally make out.” The tips of Dean’s ears burn. The idea of fuck buddies sounds so very undergrad, but it’s the best he can come up with on short notice. “Whatever you want to call it.”

Nothing in Cas’ posture has changed, but he seems different. Sharper somehow. He meets Dean’s eyes with the typical bluntness Dean’s come to expect from him. “I don’t want to ruin this,” he says, a bare type of honesty on his face. “Your friendship…” Cas coughs and looks away like he’s embarrassed. “It means a great deal to me.” 

“Any time that one of us says stop, we stop.” Dean knows, even as he’s making the promise, that it’s going to be an impossible one to keep, but let that be Future Dean’s problem. Besides, if this whole half-assed thing goes right, then maybe he can win Cas over to his way of thinking. Lazy Sunday mornings, breakfast cooked in bare feet, falling asleep halfway through a queued up Netflix marathon…

He’s so gone for this man that he hardly recognizes himself. 

“You deserve a little bit of happiness,” Dean finally says, stepping close enough to touch. _Let me make you happy_. 

He can’t stop himself. His hand reaches up and Cas sucks in a shaky breath as his fingers find the sharp cut of his cheekbone. Cas’ stubble, like the rest of him, has veered a little more towards unkempt than tousled, and it’s rough against the pads of his fingers as they drift down towards the strong line of his jaw. He can feel Cas’ swallow underneath his touch and Dean’s throat bobs in sympathy. 

“The second that one of us says we stop--”

“We stop,” Dean says, putting as much conviction as he can into the words. He sends a plea to whatever might be lurking in the sky above: _Please never say stop_. 

Cas’ smiles start in his eyes and that’s where this one stays, but, as he angles his face up to meet Dean’s, it’s enough. 

It’s enough. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	13. don't let me in with no intention to keep me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The State Championships, a Birthday, and a Phone Call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me chaps! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Friends Who Occasionally Make Out. 

It’s as good of a description as anything to say what he and Cas are these days. 

Nothing’s really changed except now, when Cas’ jaw is angled just right, Dean doesn’t have to tear his eyes away from the long expanse of his throat anymore. Now he can lean down and scrape his teeth right over that skin and Cas doesn’t do anything except maybe hum, or, if he’s in a mood, shove him a little.

It had been a surprise the first time he’d felt Cas’ lips on the side of his neck when he was slicing peppers for dinner. He’d jumped and almost sliced his fingers with the knife before he got control over himself. Craning his head back, he’d glared at the little bit of Cas he could see--dark hair and the hint of forehead. “You want to watch it with that while I’ve got a blade in my hands?”

“Mmm, no,” Cas had hummed, apparently unconcerned with the snarl in Dean’s voice. “You have control.” And then he’d moved his mouth back to the tender skin just above the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, while his hands settled on Dean’s hips, and done his level best to remove any semblance of self-control. 

So yeah, his life has changed maybe a little. 

It’s difficult now, to sit next to Cas at practices and matches and watch him chew on the end of his pens, all the while knowing how those teeth feel as they worry at the skin of his throat. It’s worse to sit next to him on the bus rides, when the heat of Cas’ body presses against his and Dean can’t even react. It’s not that he necessarily cares about what people think about him, though Lawrence isn’t known for being the most progressive of cities. It would be unprofessional, not to mention inappropriate, for him to tongue-fuck Cas in front of all the kids. 

Not that they haven’t noticed something different about the two of them since they came back from break. Claire in particular seems to follow them around with knowing eyes best seen on creepy old portraits in haunted mansions. Dean walked into his room one morning to find Claire whispering heatedly to Kevin and Patience. When she noticed him, she grinned in a way that made it feel like spiders were crawling down his back. 

He hasn’t said anything to Charlie or Benny, but, informed by the same grapevine that Claire is, they too seem to notice something different in how he relates to Cas. Nothing is ever said, but Dean notices Charlie’s elbow digging into Jo’s side when he mentions Cas’ name, and he can feel the disbelief coming off of Benny in waves as Dean assures him that no, nothing weird happened over New Year’s. 

“It was just a party, filled with a bunch of rich assholes. The champagne wasn’t even good.” Benny wears a look that says he’s insulted that Dean would go to so little effort to fool him. 

He doesn’t even tell Sam. The omission weighs on him and every time he’s with his brother he can feel it pressing against the soft places behind his ribs. Still, he holds his tongue. Partly because this thing, whatever it is, between him and Cas is no one’s business but their own. Partly because he can only imagine the look which would cross Sam’s face when he learns of the truly awful decisions his older brother is capable of making. 

“So Jess invited Cas to the wedding,” Sam says, too casually, one afternoon. Lured by the promise of cake samples, Dean had left school early. His mouth waters as Sam sets out the slices of cake along the table. “Stop drooling Dean, gross,” Sam snaps a moment later, moving one of the plates further away from Dean’s wandering hand. “You always said that you didn’t even like cake.”

“Maybe I was lying,” Dean answers, resolutely ignoring Sam’s earlier statement. Of course, some of these concoctions aren’t actually cake (banana cake with peanut butter filling and cream cheese icing? Kill him now, _please_ ), but there’s a chocolate ganache that’s screaming his name.

Dean’s just about completed Operation Steal Ganache when Sam ‘Buzzkill’ Winchester makes his move. It’s a dual attack: he snatches the plate away from Dean’s wandering hand and informs him, “Cas didn’t check a Plus One either.” 

Dean ruthlessly stamps down the hot surge of unpleasantness which curdles in his stomach from the thought of someone else getting to experiences those hands and lips, and glares at Sam. “All right, well I’ll inform Match.com and tell them to start looking for someone who likes Replicants.” 

“Don’t be an ass,” Sam scolds, his voice a mild reprimand as he finishes laying out the last of the samples (chocolate cinnamon with salted chocolate ganache with almonds and a chocolate cinnamon buttercream frosting--seriously who even comes up with these things?), and fetches two forks. “You get one bite,” he warns before handing the utensil to Dean. “Jess is caught up finishing a case and she was very...adamant that she be allowed to taste each of them.” 

“Got a Bridezilla on your hands?” Dean asks, knowing all the while that’s not the case at all. Jess, laid-back and the quintessential Cali-girl, is as far from being one of the overly primped women on TV as it’s possible to be. 

She just really likes cake. 

“See, what we were thinking,” Sam says around a bite of red velvet, “is that Cas didn’t fill out the column because his Plus One was already attending the wedding.” 

“Well, Benny’s taken and I’m pretty sure that Grandma Moore isn’t his type.” It’s hard to be pissy with chocolate and salted caramel in his mouth, but Dean’s an overachiever. Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean’s been looking forward to this cake tasting all day, and now Sam’s going to ruin it by poking at uncomfortable topics? “You and Jess seriously spend your time talking about who Cas is taking to your wedding? You don’t have more important things to think about?”

“It was also about you,” Sam says, serious in the way that he hardly ever is, “so yeah, it was important.” 

Heat rushes across Dean’s cheeks and his ears burn with it. He gulps down water, choking slightly as it combines with the cake already travelling down his throat to create a paste. “You gotta save all the sappy stuff for Jess,” he finally gets out, turning the plate in careful 90 degree increments so that he can avoid looking at Sam. “Otherwise you’ll be shit when you’re up there saying your vows.”

“Don’t dodge the subject.” Sam’s voice is pure courtroom drama, snappy and commanding, and when did his little brother start giving the orders around here? When did whiny Sammy become Sam, Adult Extraordinaire? 

“What subject? There’s nothing to talk about.” Dean fights to keep his hands on the table. His thumb itches to go to his neck, press against the tender skin just above his shirt collar ( _Goddamnit you can’t leave any marks_!). It’s a sure tell and one that Sherlock Winchester would undoubtedly catch. 

Dean smiles, wide and guilelessly. “Sorry to disappoint, but sometimes, a tree is just a tree. If you think that Jess has any hot bridesmaids, then by all means, start talking me up around them.”

Sam purses his lips in Bitchface #7, but says nothing. Dean continues, determined to put this whole conversation in the grave, coffin lid nailed shut, buried six feet under, the whole she-bang. “Especially mention that my baby’s backseat is big enough to fit two comfortably--”

“Gross dude.” Sam wrinkles his nose, even as he reaches for a piece of carrot cake. He’s got that one all to himself--vegetables and cake should never meet, in Dean’s opinion. “You’re a real catch, you know that right?” 

Dean hums and, just because Sam was sticking his nose in other people’s business, smiled obnoxiously wide around a half-chewed bite of cake. The disgusted nausea wrinkling Sam’s nose almost made up for everything else. 

\--

 

Of course, because Dean likes to ruin everything, the subject comes up later. 

The pizza that he and Cas ordered an hour ago has gone lukewarm but it doesn’t stop Dean from shoving another piece in his mouth. In the kitchen, Cas loads his dishwasher, humming a snatch of song that Dean isn’t familiar with. A stack of papers lies on the coffee table, ready for him to begin grading. 

The whole thing is so disgustingly domestic that it makes Dean want to jump up from the couch and kiss Cas senseless. 

He restrains the impulse--too much of a good thing and all that. He doesn’t want kissing Cas to lose its allure. More to the point, he doesn’t want to push the tenuous label of ‘Friends who Occasionally Make Out’ past the breaking point. It’s why he waits for Cas to make the first move, why, even though he can’t take his eyes off of Cas doing mundane household chores, he’s not getting up and putting his hands all over him. 

For the most part, Cas has adapted to the change in their status with customary aplomb. If he senses any lingering awkwardness, he keeps it to himself. And he certainly doesn’t kiss Dean like he finds it weird to be kissing his best friend. 

Sometimes, when Dean is brave and his fingers venture to the skin just beneath Cas’ shirt, the gravity of what he’s doing will hit him and he’ll gasp helplessly against Cas’ mouth. He’s kissing _Castiel Milton_. He finally gets to see what Cas looks like when he’s kiss-drunk, hair mangled, lips swollen, eyes wild. He gets to hear the symphony of sighs, grunts, and moans when his lips travel in a path down Cas’ neck (and who would have thought that Cas would end up being one of the mouthiest fuckers Dean’s ever had the privilege to hear?). 

It feels too good to be true, like someone’s going to come along with a contract and point out that he’s in violation of Sub-Clause 3(a)-- _You thought that you got to make out with you stupidly hot and intelligent best friend with no repercussions, but the joke’s on you Dean Winchester! Now you have to watch him renounce everything about you and then marry your worst enemy_! 

So yeah, Dean waits for Cas to initiate. It’s also why, despite many frustrating boners and a case of blue balls that he’s almost certain will eventually become fatal, he hasn’t pushed for anything more. They’ve indulged in several hot and heavy makeout sessions, tongues gone akimbo and teeth nipping at jugulars, but their kisses have never gone below their shirt collars. Their hands have occasionally been adventurous, but Dean’s only felt the ripple of Cas’ back against his hands, curved his hands around the blades of Cas’ shoulders and held on like they were handles. Cas has mapped the area around his waist, his fingers trailing softly over the skin until Dean was twitchy and jumpy under his touch, but even he hadn’t been bold enough to venture any further north. 

It makes for some damned up awkward times, when Dean has contort himself like he’s trying out for Cirque du Soleil just to keep from poking Cas in the thigh with his dick. At some point in the near future, he thinks that his dick might just take matters into its own...whatever and he doesn’t want to see what exactly that entails. 

“So you’re going to go see the world’s grossest couple tie the knot,” Dean says by way of making conversation. He’s watching Cas, so he can see the moment when Cas’ movements stutter, before resuming their easy grace. 

“Yes, Jess asked me last week if I would be willing to attend. I have to admit, weddings aren’t my favorite social engagements, but I am pleased for her and Sam.” He looks it too, the sap. His lips are curved upwards in a soft smile, one that Dean isn’t entirely sure Cas is aware of. 

“Yeah, they’re real cute,” Dean mutters. Cas stretches up to put a cup away into the cabinet. “I was thinking,” he begins, the words coming out in a tumble before he can lose his nerve, “maybe you could come with me.” 

A thin line etches itself between Cas’ eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s the best course of action,” he says. He dries off a mug with a dish cloth. Mesmerized, Dean watches his fingers twist and pull the cloth. “You’re the best man, which means that you’ll have to get there exceedingly early. If we traveled together then I would be there hours before I needed to be.” 

Dean blinks. He has to be joking. There’s no way that a person could be that oblivious. “I meant,” he says, “maybe you could come _with_ me.” His hand does the stupid little wave thing again. 

The line deepens. Cas’ lower lip disappears into his mouth and Dean spares the moment to envy it before Cas sets down the mug with a small clink onto the counter. He strides towards the couch. Mouth dry, Dean watches him drop to first one knee, then the other, on the plush material. 

It’s not their third kiss, not even their fourth or fifth, but there’s still something so wonderfully new about it all. Cas’ eyes go smokey and the tip of his tongue flits out to tap against his lower lip. The placement of his hand on Dean’s knee is the best kind of tease, better even than when his lips ghost over Dean’s. A small, disappointed noise escapes Dean’s throat, to be answered by a chuckle from Cas. 

Dean’s blood heats as Cas’ lips finally push against his. Sharp teeth capture his lower lip and a thin, strangled noise escapes Dean’s mouth. Every place Cas’ fingers touch on his body relaxes--his neck, his shoulder, down his arm to his hand. Dean pushes into Cas and Cas takes, and he takes, mouth opening in a clear invitation, which Dean accepts without thinking twice. 

“The wedding isn’t until April,” Cas murmurs against his lips. Dean’s fogged brain takes a few seconds to catch up to the words. “Plenty of time until then.” A series of quick, brutal kisses take his breath away, enough that when Cas says, “Let’s just make it up as we go along, huh?” and presses a final, deliberate kiss to his lips, Dean agrees without thinking. 

He’ll look back later and realize, that was a big red flag, waving at him with the fury of a possessed matador. 

Now, he just accepts it, as he surges forward and pulls Cas closer to him. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The preparations for the State competition finally come together. 

It’s a round robin tournament, double elimination, to be held on the campus of Wichita State University. It’ll necessitate the team staying overnight, and arrangements are made. Vice-Principal Adler even stops by one practice to congratulate the team for making it so far. He oozes self-righteousness, and Dean’s skin crawls to look at his smarmy smile. He’s glad of Cas’ presence close by his elbow, even when Adler’s eyes linger a little too long on the press of their hips. Dean’s throat bobs, but he doesn’t move, just folds his arms in a mirror of Cas and stares at Adler through the duration of his presentation. If Adler wants this fight, he can go for it. Dean has tenure, and he’s well aware that Naomi loved their project proposal. 

The students suffer through Adler’s talk, squirming in their seats. From their postures, Dean can tell that Claire, Alex, and Krissy are dying to let their mouths run away with them. He’s thankful that they restrain themselves, though it would have been an interesting exercise to see what Adler valued more: his vanity or the chance of taking home a state championship. He’s almost regretful they won’t have the chance to find out. 

A sigh of relief floods the room once he leaves. Claire immediately puts her talents at mimicry to good use, and replays Adler’s blustering speech to Kevin and Alfie. Both try and fail to keep their laughter contained. A smile even pulls at Dean’s mouth. He knows that as a responsible teacher, he should put a stop to their mockery, but hell. It’s not like Adler doesn’t set himself up for it. Maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole then the kids wouldn’t be assholes back. 

“I wasn’t aware that he even noticed,” Cas murmurs. 

“Oh trust me, he’s been wanting this State championship so badly he’s gagging for it.” Dean hesitates, because he doesn’t like to be reminded of times past, when Cas and he were at each other’s throats. “He made special mention of it when he told me that I would be co-coaching.”

Cas glances over at him, eyebrow raised. “Did he now?” He hums in vague interest. “Did you know that we’re going to be gone January 22 and 23?”

The rapid change of subject is enough to have Dean’s hand spinning. “Yeah,” he says, unsure of where this conversation is headed. 

“That’s a day before your birthday,” Cas says with satisfaction, pitching his vow so that he won’t be overheard. At the other side of the room, the students set up the buzzer systems, still chortling over Adler. 

“Is it?” Dean asks noncommittally. Cas’ eyebrow ticks up in surprise at his tone. 

Dean’s never put much stock in birthdays. As a kid, he never stayed in one place long enough to have any friends who could remember the day. It was always just him, Sam, and his father. Sam remembered with a child’s sense of reliability, which was to say sometimes Dean got a gift the day of his birthday and sometimes he got a shamefaced apology from Sam five days later. Either way, it was more than he got from John. John, who had fathered two boys, who had presumably been there when they were brought into the world, but couldn’t seem to remember what day his boys entered the world. 

Dean said that it didn’t matter. He said it so much that eventually, it didn’t. 

When he moved in with Bobby, things changed a little. Bobby always remembered the day, and Dean woke up every January 24 to fresh waffles, and an awkward, one-armed hug. There wasn’t always enough money to get him gifts, but the recognition was what he’d been craving all along. 

When he settled into his adult life, complete with family and friends, they’d done their best to never let the day pass without some kind of recognition. Charlie, he thinks, would willingly die before she let his birthday pass without some kind of obnoxious neon balloon fuckery. Sam and Jess are usually a little more reasonable and settle for a nice dinner out. Cas’ interest in the day, Dean has to admit, is unexpected, though he doesn’t know why it would be. 

“I thought you might want to,” Cas pauses, eyes flicking anywhere except for Dean, “do something while we were in Wichita. The big city.” A demeaning smile crosses his face. 

“Wow Cas,” Dean drawls, nudging him with his shoulder, “you really do know how to treat a boy right.” A faint blush crosses over Cas’ cheeks. 

“It was just a thought,” he mutters, chin lifting towards the ceiling. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I’m sure that everyone has something planned for you once we’re home.” 

“No, that’s…” Dean nudges him again. He wants nothing more than to put his lips to the soft skin just behind Cas’ ear, but he’s painfully aware of the students crowding the room. “I just don’t expect shit for my birthday, you know? It’s...weird. In a good way,” he hastens to say. 

Dean dares to glance sidelong at Cas. Warmth winds its way through his chest when he recognizes the look spread across Cas’ face. It’s the soft, sentimental smile that Dean’s come, selfishly, to classify as _his_. He might not have everything he wants from Cas, he might not be able to hold hands with him in a restaurant and fall asleep next to him at night, but that smile...That smile is meant solely for him. 

“Leave it to me,” Cas murmurs, and in a fit of bravery, he strokes his thumb across the back of Dean’s hand. “Let me take care of you.” 

God, but Dean wants to let him. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s not a long bus ride to Wichita, just a little under three hours, but it’s made in a school bus not designed for long trips. By the end of the drive, Dean’s ass aches and he’s grateful for the opportunity to scramble off the bus and stretch. His duffel clangs against his lower back as he looks at the cheap motel. If it were Sam and his Dad standing next to him, he’d feel fourteen again. 

Instead, he gets Cas beside him and the kids behind him and it’s so much better. 

“We’ll go ahead and get checked in and get something to eat before we head over to the event,” Cas tells him. Dean nods, more than happy to leave all technical arrangements in Cas’ hands. He rounds up the kids and passes out key cards until all the students have theirs. 

“No funny business!” Dean shouts after their retreating backs. Not that he thinks the nerd squad will immediately try to impregnate each other--Alfie and Inias both look horrified at the mere mention of it--but there’s something about the wicked smirks on Claire and Alex’s faces that he doesn’t trust. 

“Here.” Cas presses the card into Dean’s hand as he stifles a yawn. If Dean had to guess then he would say that Cas spent most of last night stressing and little of it sleeping. He wishes that there were time for more than a short catnap. He wishes that there were time for a hell of a lot more than that, but as it is, they’re pushing it. 

Their room looks a lot like all impersonal hotel rooms: two double beds, a desk that’s not meant for actual work, and a single armchair that’s meant as a torture device instead of a seating arrangement. It looks like every room from his childhood. The reminder isn’t necessarily pleasant. 

Cas pushes past him and claims the bed closest to the window by flopping face-first into the mattress. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Dean warns, finding his toothbrush and toothpaste and putting them on the bathroom counter. “We need to be getting the kids lunch in twenty minutes.” 

“Go on without me,” Cas mumbles, his words almost lost in the mattress. “I’m not hungry.” 

“If you don’t eat now, then you’ll be an ass later on.” Dean knows this from personal experience: a hungry Castiel is a Castiel that snaps and snarls like a rabid alligator. 

“Won’t.” Dean rolls his eyes before he takes a critical look at Cas’ form. He doesn’t allow his eyes to linger for an unseemly amount of time on the swell of Cas’ butt, though it does look uncommonly good in his dark jeans. His phone buzzes with a question from Kevin: _We’re getting hungry, any word on when we’re leaving for food?_ Dean taps out a quick reply and takes another, more assessing glance, at Cas. 

Time for drastic action. 

“Cas, the kids are hungry.” Cas groans and Dean puts a knee on the bed. He can’t bring himself to straddle Cas’ form (they’d never leave then) but it’s become apparent that something needs to be done. He leans over Cas, close enough to bury his nose in dark hair. “We need to go get them something to eat before they’re breaking down the door.” 

“You take them. I’m going to nap and then go over lineups.” 

“No, you’re going to come with us because food is a source of energy.” If anything, Cas burrows his face deeper into the bedspread. Right then. Well, if that’s how he wants to play this. 

Dean digs his nose deep into Cas’ hair, until it brushes against his scalp. Cas smells good--like something fruity. He travels down, to the wispy hair at the nape of his neck. He brushes a kiss, feather-light, to the downy hair. Cas grunts, but makes no other move. Dean moves, puts another kiss just behind Cas’ ear. For revenge, because Cas is being a child, he nips at the shell of his ear. 

He isn’t expecting the low groan rumbling up from Cas’ chest, and so Dean does what any good scientist would do: he experiments. He mouths at Cas’ ear, all the way down to the lobe, which he takes into his mouth. From far away, the sound of Cas’ breathy sighs reaches Dean’s ears. He becomes conscious of other things: Cas’ fists crumpling the sheets, the fact that Cas turned his head for easier access. His oft-neglected dick stirs in interest. 

“We have to go,” Dean murmurs against Cas’ ear, and maybe he’s not playing fair, but neither is Cas. Especially when he rolls over and pulls Dean in closer with a hand on the back of his neck. 

“They can wait for a minute.” Cas’ mouth is insistent, tongue already swiping at Dean’s lips. Even with all of their obligations pressing at him, Dean can’t help but surrender to this, the pull of Cas’ hand, the needy sigh escaping out of Cas’ mouth, the knee pressing against his side. 

Sneaky bastard. While he was busy not paying attention, Cas managed to pull Dean over so that he’s poised half over him. It’s closer than they’ve been before. All it would take would be a shift of Dean’s weight and he’d be straddling him. 

Dean freezes. There’s nothing, god there’s _nothing_ he’d love more than to throw his leg over Cas’ waist and kiss him until he can’t breathe, kiss him until he’s coming in his jeans like a teenager. But the kids are already whining for food, and immediately after that they’ve got to get to the campus to check in for the tournament. They don’t have time to waste while Dean doesn’t get his rocks off with Cas. 

Since when did he become the responsible one? 

“Cas.” Dean pulls away, ignoring Cas’ unhappy whine. “We have to go.” He presses another, final kiss, to Cas’ lips. Cas tries to follow him up and props himself on his elbows as Dean steps away. 

“We still have a few more minutes.” Cas has to be aware of the picture he makes, sprawled out on the bed with his legs akimbo and spit-slick lips. 

“Yeah, but now I need to go make it look like you didn’t just have your tongue down my throat.” Dean scrubs at his hair, not that it’ll help anything. “Seriously man, get ready. Swear to god, you’re like a teenager.” 

“I’d consider that your fault.” Cas sounds grumpy, but at least he gets up off the bed and pulls his shirt straight. Dean watches him out the corner of his eye, but Cas doesn’t look like he’s getting ready to jump his bones. He’s simultaneously disappointed and relieved. 

It’s never been like this before. With Cassie, with Lisa...He’s a physical guy, yeah, and he likes sex as much as the next red-blooded American man, but he’s never been so focused on a single person. He’s never felt the overwhelming need to touch, to hold, pounding through him. 

Maybe he is just a horny teenager at heart. 

Or maybe Cas is different, means more. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

The team falls on their food like a pack of ravenous wolves, while Dean and Cas watch from a safe distance. Dean knows that he’s disgusting when he eats but...yikes. From the restaurant, they walk to campus and sign into the competition. Immediately, it becomes apparent that this is not going to be like the rest of their competitions. 

Other than the dreaded Bow-Tie Belmont school, their competitors were fairly easy-going. Matches were mostly casual affairs where the coaches asked about wives and careers. Dean had hated the meet and greet, but to be fair, he hates almost any large gathering of people who he hasn’t known for two plus years. 

This is radically different. 

Each coach looks at each other with suspicion bordering on animosity, to say nothing of the teams. Dean’s never seen a nerd fight, but if tensions rise any further in Fergus Hall, then he just might get to cross that off his bucket list. Dean looks as one team passes them in lockstep and whistles softly. He’d thought that the bowties were bad: that team is dressed in matching suits which have pressed to army standards. Next to them, Lawrence’s matching polos look almost shabby. 

“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Dean nudges Cas’ side, waggling his eyebrows at the joke. Cas, exhibiting his excellent sense of humor, rolls his eyes, and turns his attention back to the schedule. 

“All right, we’re in room 119 for the first competition, and depending on the outcome of that we’re either in room 213 or 112 for the second.” He glances around at the various teams, and even though Cas is doing his best to keep it together, Dean can sense the stress coming off of him in waves. It’s bad enough to where the team’s going to pick up on it soon. 

His new, preferred method of Cas distracting is obviously not going to work: he thinks that the team would notice if he mashed his face into Cas’. But he’s got to do something, and fast, before Cas snaps and starts writing out lineups and strategies Beautiful Mind-style. 

He takes his chance once the team reaches the classroom. “Guys, go in and set up, all right? I just need to ask a quick question.” Patience looks concerned, while Claire looks like she’s doing her best not to smirk, but they both do as he asks. 

Cas casts a curious glance at him before he attempts to follow the team. Dean stops him with a firm hand on his chest. “You and I need to talk.” With the hand on Cas’ chest, he steers him backward, into an empty classroom on the opposite side of the hall. 

“Whatever you’re planning, I sincerely doubt that we have the time for it.” Cas’ eyes make an obvious trip over Dean’s body. 

Heat spreads over Dean’s cheeks. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” Cas purses his lips. “Seriously, I cannot believe that I am the one telling you this, but you have to tone it down.” Cas has the good grace to look moderately ashamed, before he cranes his head to look past Dean to the door.

“Well, while I appreciate the pep talk, I’ll remind you that our team is competing in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, and unless you manage to calm down the crazy, you’re just going to stress them out more than they already are.” 

Cas’ eyes flick to his, expression hard and cold. “I’m not crazy.” 

Dean falters, his talk vanished in light of this development. “I...never said that you were. God, you’re probably the sanest person that I know. But you’re a stress ball. You can’t go into that room looking like you’re two steps away from tearing everyone a new one.” 

“This is the State Competition. It’s immensely important. So you’ll forgive me if I’m, as you say, a ‘stress ball’.” The finger quotes shouldn’t be endearing. They really shouldn’t be.

“I’m not saying that it’s not important. And it’ll be awesome if we pull a win out of this. But it’s not the end of the world if we don’t.” Cas glares at Dean like he’s just spoken the worst blasphemy possible. “I mean it Cas, what’s going to happen to us if we lose? Are we going to get fired?” 

“The team’s worked so hard to be here--”

“Yeah, and they’ll be disappointed as hell if they go out in the first two rounds, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?” Cas’ silence is answer enough. “And they made it this far. That’s something to be proud of, right?”

“I just…” Cas’ fist clenches and he looks at a place over Dean’s right shoulder. “I need to come away from this with a win.” He bites his lip and meet’s Dean’s eyes. “I just need something to go right.” 

It takes Dean a moment to place the look in Cas’ eyes, but when he does, he could kick himself. It’s the same look that he had on New Year’s, the same desperation. It’s quiet, buried so deep that Cas is probably able to push it away, ignore it so much that he forgets it’s there. That’s why when it finally rears its ugly head, it’s twice as bad. 

“I get that Cas, I do. Trust me, I know all about it. But you’re not going to get anywhere if you’re running around in circles. You’ve got to breathe.” 

Despite his resolve, Dean reaches out and wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrist. The contact settles something in him and he watches in satisfaction as the tense set of Cas’ shoulders relaxes. His thumb runs over the pulse point and he feels it slow. 

“We’ve had this talk before,” Cas finally murmurs. He looks at Dean through his eyelashes, and if they don’t get out of this room soon then those desks are going to be put to a use not recommended in the curriculum. 

“Yeah well, it’s just such a nice chat.” Cas smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and goddamnit, when did he get so weak? He tugs and Cas comes easily. With every molecule in his body screaming _kiss him_ , it’s hard to do otherwise, but they’ve got a team waiting for them and they can’t afford to be distracted. 

Still, Dean’s never claimed to be a saint. 

His lips brush over Cas’ forehead, pressing into his hairline and over the gossamer thin lines of his forehead. Grumpy bastard spends too much of his time frowning. 

Dean doesn’t know how many times he’s kissed Cas at this point, but they’re well into double digits. He’s mapped out the roof of his mouth, felt his moans doubled and given back to him. Cas’ fingers have slipped underneath his shirt and spanned his waist. He’s tasted the salt of Cas’ sweat, breathed in the scent of him. 

But this, his lips pressed against the cool skin of Cas’ forehead, feels more intimate than all of those moments. 

Dean savors the contact, draws as much comfort from it as he can. He drags it out for two, maybe three heartbeats, before he pulls away. “We need to get back.”

Cas’ eyes open--when did they close? He looks gobsmacked, like he ran into a wall face first and he’s still recovering. Dean’s heart does a loop de loop as he meets Cas’ eyes. He’s seen that look on Bobby’s face when he catches Ellen in the midst of shooting cans and Sam’s right after Jess reads him one of her closing arguments. He doesn’t know what adjectives to attach to that look. All of them seem too close for comfort. 

He coughs and takes a step backwards. “Come on, we don’t want them to come looking for us.” 

Friends Who Occasionally Make Out with Each Other. 

God, he wants to change that title and soon. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Four games later and Dean is feeling pretty good. Next to him, Cas has unclenched and even appears to be having a good time. They lost the third game, which puts them in a slightly precarious position, but overall, they’re one of the top seeds and they’ve managed to knock out some of the lesser competition. The team’s riding high on their victory, and a news crew even stops to ask a few questions. 

Cas manages to disappear into nothingness, almost like the little bastard has wings, so Dean’s left to answer questions from the overly perky reporter. He bites back the urge to remind her that she’s third string on the team and that no one should be that happy about being forced to cover a convention of nerds, but he somehow doesn’t have it in him. Instead, he forces politeness, and maybe even a smile. He hopes it comes out looking a little less constipated than he feels. 

He also hopes that Sam skips watching the evening news. 

At the fifth game, things get tight. Flop sweat spreads out from the armpits and collar of Kevin’s polo, turning the navy blue black. Patience’s fingernails are chewed down almost to the quick and Claire can’t stop twisting her hair around her fingers. Next to him, Cas ruthlessly gnaws on the end of his pen. If he’s not careful then he’ll have chomped it all down by the end of the night. 

They squeak through the fifth game, mostly due to the other team’s incompetence: they won’t stop buzzing in early on questions and their incorrect answers lose them as many points as they gain. Lawrence holds on by the skin of their teeth and wins a place in the semifinals. 

Logically, Dean knows that it’s an honor to make it this far. Out of all the teams in the state, they made it to the top four. It’s an accomplishment to be proud of. His rational brain recognizes all of this. The part of him that’s still hung up on Cas thinks that if they don’t make it to the championship game, then he’s going to overturn a table. 

Cas sits beside him, so tense that it’s a miracle he doesn’t shatter. Dean’s careful when he pushes his thigh against Cas’, sure that the slightest bit of pressure will cause him to shatter. When not even his foot pressing against Cas’ ankle makes a difference Dean takes a chance and slides his right hand underneath the table. 

Cas’ thigh twitches when he squeezes, but it never relaxes. It takes Dean’s fingers tracing small patterns around the edges of his kneecap for Cas to finally loosen. “It’ll be all right,” Dean mutters, soft enough that Cas is the only one to hear. 

“I know,” Cas says back, sounding equal parts annoyed and anxious. After a minute he releases the pen and turns to Dean. “I’m sorry.” 

The apology is unexpected enough for Dean to jerk his hand back. “For what?” he asks, returning to his former occupation. Knees are weird. Knees are weird, and knobbly, and they should definitely not feel this good to trace. 

Cas looks towards the front of the room. The moderator is checking over her questions, and from her stance it’s obvious that she would like to get started soon. The tension returns to Cas’ muscle and this time it won’t disappear, no matter how much Dean squeezes. “You shouldn’t have to…” Cas ducks his head down towards to the table and his pen becomes a prisoner of his teeth once more. “You shouldn’t have take care of me. It’s not your job.” 

And that is. 

That is so far beyond the scope of what is all right, that Dean can’t even dignify it with a response at first. 

“You’re damn right it’s not my job,” he hisses. The words come out fast now, as the teams take their places. Kevin looks petrified, while Patience looks like she’s moved beyond the regular plane of human emotion. “I don’t get paid for looking after you, I’m not a babysitter.” Cas’ thigh twitches, like he’s trying to remove Dean’s hand by nothing more than the power of suggestion. “It’s not a chore, all right?” His fingers clench, harder than he means to. “I want to. It’s part of what being a ( _boyfriend_ ) friend is.” 

Cas sucks in a shaky breath and sits back in his seat as the moderator has the teams introduce themselves. “It’s a good thing that you don’t want to be paid,” he says, and there’s the final release of tension which Dean has been looking for all this time. “There’s no way that I could ever afford you.” 

“You’d find some way to pay me.” Dean lasciviously winks at Cas, letting the innuendo hang heavy between them. 

Cas smiles, quick and bright, before ducking his head. When he looks back up again, his face has returned to its regular impassivity. Still, there’s a hint of mischief as he murmurs, “I did promise you a night out on the town tonight.” 

The words are innocent enough by themselves, but there’s something heavy about the way that Cas says them that sends Dean’s blood pumping hard through his veins. His thigh pushes against Cas’, suddenly heavy in its implication. 

He swallows, equal parts thrilled and terrified of whatever the night will bring. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean signals the bartender again, flashing two fingers at her. She casts a dubious look at the shot glasses littering the table in front of him, but ultimately decides that since he’s capable of remaining upright, it’s really not her problem. She sets another shot in front of him and, with a moment’s hesitation, another shot in front of Cas. The lime on the rim of his glass is obnoxiously bright. 

Cas is a tequila man. Who knew. 

Dean swirls the dark amber liquid in the glass before running his finger over the rim. It’ll be his fourth shot--not necessarily a record-breaker, but it’s shaping up to be one of those nights if he’s trying to keep up with Cas. Cas, who seems determined to hit double digits in shots, and who’s looking at the bartender with a glassy-eyed focus. 

“Hey Bukowski.” Dean nudges Cas with his elbow and watches in alarm as Cas lists to one side. He rights him, like a Weeble, but there’s a limpness to him that Dean doesn’t care for. “How about you finish what’s in front of you before you go looking for seconds?”

Cas turns his gaze on Dean. His eyes seem to want to slide to the left and down, but it’s still Cas. Even distracted and drunk, he has a better grip on things than most. “I was going to get you something.” Holy hell, how has his voice dropped even lower? It’s reaching subterranean levels now. “This is supposed to be your birthday celebration.”

If Dean were being 100% honest, then he would say that he’d been hoping that the birthday celebration would occur in the bedroom and with significantly less clothing. As is, it’s looking like he’s going to have to peel Cas off the floor from his birthday celebration. 

He loves the man, but he and Cas are going to have stern words when he’s sober enough to remember them. 

“It’s all right,” Dean says, taking a small sip of his shot. Cas, encouraged by this, takes his shot in hand. And then Dean discovers why Cas being a tequila man is such a bad thing for his heart. 

At the first glimpse of Cas’ tongue, his heart stutters. It only gets worse when he laps at the salt-encrusted rim of the shot like he’s trying to fellate it. Once he’s done getting to third and a half base with the glass, he tosses the shot back, throat working obscenely as he swallows. The lime is the next victim, Cas’ teeth flashing white as he bites into the tender flesh. 

The whole affair deserves to have its own Redtube channel. Subscriber: Dean Winchester.

Dean slaps Cas’ hand down before he can signal the bartender again. “That’s enough for you big guy.” He does in fact signal her, but only to tell her that they’re tabbing out. She returns Cas’ card, complete with a hefty balance. Dean, feeling perhaps a little spiteful, writes out a larger tip than is necessary, and shoves the paper over at Cas. 

“Sign here.” Cas blinks owlishly at him but scrawls something akin to his signature on the dotted line. Dean shoves everything back towards the bartender and flashes her one of his most winning smiles. In another lifetime, when he didn’t have the man that he’s in love with dangling off his arm, maybe. As it stands however…

“Come on champ, let’s go to the room.” Castiel is capable of walking, but he seems more than content to list into Dean’s personal space. Dean rolls his eyes but he props Cas up under his arm. Together they make their way towards the elevator, stumbling like some toddlers in a three-legged race.

The elevator doors open with a soft whoosh and Dean pours Cas into the enclosed space. The doors close with a ding and then--Cas’ facade of calm vanishes like it never was and he’s on him, hands grabbing at the collar of Dean’s shirt and pushing him against the chrome railing. Dean flails and hits a button. He hopes it was the right floor. 

“Cas,” he chokes out, wheezing as Cas nips along his jawline. He knew that Cas’ arms weren’t just for show, but he sometimes forgets that Cas is actually Crouching Nerd Hidden Badass. “Cas, come on. Save it for the room man.” 

“It’s your birthday.” Cas’ voice comes out in a harsh growl and he punctuates the words with a bite to Dean’s neck that’s on the wrong side of pain. 

The elevator doors open and Dean summons up his remaining strength to push Cas off of him. Cas resists, a low whine escaping through his teeth. “Room,” Dean snaps, trapping Cas underneath his arm as he makes his way towards their room. 

He’s not sure where the clinginess of the past few days is coming from, and while he’s not complaining about the fact that Cas is on him like a terrier with a bone, he can’t say that it sits easy with him either. This, the groping and fevered kisses, the single-minded focus--it’s not like the Castiel that he’s come to know over the past months. 

And Dean would ask Cas about it, he really would, except for Two Facts. 

1) Talking about Things is not the Winchester Way and Dean has no idea what would happen if he tried to violate that rule. His head would explode, probably.  
2) While Cas isn’t three sheets to the wind, blackout drunk, he’s certainly beyond the realm of sobriety and is therefore not capable of having a Serious Conversation. 

Dean manages to get them into their room without any accusations of public indecency. Getting through the narrow passageway and to the beds proves a little more difficult since he has Cas hanging onto him like a limpet. It becomes exponentially harder when Cas’ hot mouth drags over his cheek to his ear. 

“Dean,” he murmurs, hands pushing at Dean’s flannel overshirt. “Come on Dean…”

God, he’s an idiot. He has Cas panting in his ear, practically begging for it, and he’s going to turn him down. Whatever corner of hell is reserved for idiots, that’s his. 

“We need to talk,” he finally gets out, his voice strangled and high as Cas licks over the exposed dip of his clavicle. “Cas,” he tries again, fighting off wandering hands. “Cas, is this about what happened earlier?”

It’s like he dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over Cas. If he could, then Dean would bottle this and sell it to every drugstore in America: Instant Sobriety. He’d be pleased, if Cas weren’t glaring at him with such viciousness. 

“Indeed it’s not,” Cas says, his tone just a few shades above Arctic. “Besides, I thought that you wanted this.” 

Dean laughs, which is the wrong move, because Cas’ already impassive face becomes marble. He turns and walks stiff-legged towards his bed and this is so not how they’re going to play this tonight. Dean might be allergic to talking about things, but he’ll fight through. 

“Cas.” Dean catches Cas’ wrist and turns him around. Cas, maturely, chooses to look anywhere except at him. “They made it to the championship game. Number two in the whole state--that ain’t nothing to sneeze at.” 

“Yes, I’m well aware.” Cas’ jaw clenches. “I heard you telling the camera crews that very line.” 

“Because you hightailed it out of there like your ass was on fire!” Dean really doesn’t mean to snap, god knows he doesn’t want to make Cas feel any crappier about this, but the whole hot and cold act really isn’t working for him. “They lost a game, it’s not the end of the world! Even Kevin was happy and you know that his neurotic ass is never happy with anything less than first place!” 

Cas finally meets his gaze, not that it makes Dean feel any better. There’s no warmth in those eyes. “Well, I’m glad that everyone else is fine with this. Forgive me if I’m not.” 

Dean tightens his grip when Cas tries to pull away. “Cas. Please.” 

Something in his voice causes Cas to soften. His shoulders droop and eyes lose their defiant gleam. “I wanted a win so badly. After…” Cas swallows, bites his lower lip. “After everything, I just needed to be able to bring home a win.” 

Dean is almost positive that’s not entirely what Cas meant to say, but he’s not going to mention it. They have bigger problems to worry about. Cas can keep his secrets for the time being. What’s important now is that the horny bastard is gone, as is the ice-queen, and all that’s left in their wake is just--Cas. Hurt, yes, but still Cas, the man that he’s helplessly, desperately in love with. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, because what else can he say? He’s said it all before--Second place in the whole state really isn’t bad, he’s halfway convinced that the kids on that team were robots who were slightly less assimilated to mimic human customs than Cas, their kids made an honest effort to win. Came damn close too. There’s no shame in being beaten by a better team. 

He said it all before. To news crews, as Cas so kindly pointed out. It doesn’t mean that it’s going to make Cas feel any better. Hell, the guy looks like he just saw his puppy get curbstomped. 

“Thanks,” Cas says, no hint of sarcasm in his voice. He just sounds...tired. 

“Damn it Cas,” Dean says, no heat in his voice. “Just...come here, would you?” 

When Cas remains still, Dean makes the move towards him. Cas’ body is stiff at first, arms at his side, but that doesn’t stop Dean. He wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders, squeezes until he hears a small ‘oof’ escape the other man. He even rocks back and forth. He can remember Ellen hugging him like this, when he was a shitty teenager and angry at the world. 

For whatever reason, it works on Cas, the same way that it worked on fifteen year old Dean. Cas relaxes into his grip, arms winding around his waist. His forehead rests on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s shirt goes damp from Cas’ breath. He rests his head on top of Cas’ and doesn’t recognize that he’s humming until Cas starts to match his breathing to the song. 

“What do you want?” Dean asks. He’s fighting the urge to nuzzle into Cas’ hair because this--this is not what Friends Who Occasionally Make Out do. They make out. They give each other hickies. Maybe, and Dean’s blood thrills at this, they give each other handjobs. But hug? Breathe in the scent of the other’s shampoo like it’s the best drug? No, that’s sappy shit that other people, people who are in relationships do. 

But if Cas isn’t going to stop him, then who is Dean to put limitations upon himself? 

Cas groans, deep in his throat, and Dean stops swaying long enough to pull back and look at Cas. “Cas, babe, what do you want?” 

Cas flashes a tired little grin. “It’s your birthday, you tell me what you want.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. With the slightest push, Cas topples backward, landing on the mattress and bouncing once. “How about you sleep it off?” 

“Not a great birthday present.” Cas is trying, but his voice is already slurring from exhaustion. 

“Yeah, you can make it up to me. With interest.” Dean goes down on one knee and starts working at the laces of Cas’ shoes. 

“Not exactly how I pictured you going down on your knees for me.” At that, Dean has to look up. 

Fuck, if Cas weren’t still kind of drunk and emotionally vulnerable--He’s a goddamn picture, looking down the length of his body at Dean, eyes wide and mouth curled in a smug little grin. “Yeah well,” Dean says once enough blood’s returned to his brain to resume normal functions, “this isn’t the way that I pictured getting into your pants, if it makes you feel better.” 

Cas laughs, a little sound of victory, before he lapses into a contemplative silence. When he speaks again, it takes Dean by surprise. “I’m sorry Dean.” Dean glances up to see Cas staring intently at the ceiling. “I know that I’ve been…” He scrubs his hands over his face and tries again. “Michael was...He was worse than usual this time. I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with that. I’ll get over it soon.” 

Dean bites back the surge of hatefulness which springs to the foreground at the mere mention of Michael’s name. “Jesus Cas, you’re fine. You know I’m good.” 

Cas’ eyes droop. “Yes you are,” he sighs, the words so soft that Dean’s not entirely sure that he meant to say them aloud at all. 

Friends Who Occasionally Make Out do not pull the covers back from the bed, and they don’t tuck each other in. They sure as hell don’t kiss each other’s foreheads and whisper, “Sleep it off, all right sweetheart?” before flicking the bedside light off. 

So what the fuck does that make Dean and Cas?

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean startles out of a sound sleep, heart pounding against his ribs as his eyes tear through the unfamiliar room. _Hotel_ , he recognizes, and with that comes the overwhelming fear-- _Where’s Sam?_ He looks at the opposite bed--the figure in the bed is too big to be Sam, hair too dark and spiky--

Cas. That’s Cas in the other bed. And that’s his cell phone ringing. That’s what woke him from a weird dream involving Charlie and the Rebel Army. 

“Dean!” Cas’ voice apparently drops to the quality of ‘Pack a Day Smoker’ at--Jesus Christ, is it really 3:48 in the morning? “Will you get your phone please?” Cas’ eyes are open in narrow slits, gleaming in the faint glow of the streetlights filtered through the window. They look angry, like the tone of his voice wasn’t already a glaring indicator of his current mood.

Apparently Cas wakes up grumpy. He’s just learning all sorts of things today. 

Dean gropes for his phone. His brain isn’t fully online yet, still valiantly clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, and it’s making his motor functions sticky and unreliable. After more clattering than is probably necessary, he finally grabs his phone and brings it up to his eyes, squinting at the unexpected brightness. “It’s probably a drunk dial, I can’t think of who--” Dean’s heart plummets all the way to his ankles before jumping up and out of his throat when he sees the name on the display. “I’ll be back.” 

He ignores Cas’ questions, just throws on a t-shirt and snatches the keycard on the way out of the room. 

Hotel hallways always look sickly, but moreso in the early morning hours. Dean squints as the unnatural yellow light assaults his pupils and he walks on bare feet to the elevator landing. He shades his eyes and looks down at the display on his phone. 

_Dad_. 

He can hear Sam’s voice, a world and a half away: _You’re not obligated to answer the phone every time he calls. When was the last time that he called for something good? Or just to check up on you?_

Dean knows that it’s a bad idea, he doesn’t need Sam, or Bobby, or Ellen telling him otherwise. But he also knows that he just...can’t. He can’t ignore him. 

“Dad.” 

“Dean.”

He takes in a deep breath. “Most people wait until the daylight hours until they call.” 

He can hear his father’s disapproval through the phone. Take the man out of the Marines, but you can’t take the Marines out of the man. “I’m busy.” 

“Yeah.” Dean knows well what keeps his father up late at night--it’s either his extracurricular activities, which means that John Winchester downed at least double what he did tonight, or it’s work, which is a whole other can of worms altogether. 

The silence on the other end of the phone is only punctuated by his father’s heavy breaths. Dean’s stomach churns. It’s been ages since John called him this late. Now Dean doesn’t have to wonder whether or not his father’s been drinking, he only has to wonder just how much of a bar John downed before he decided that it was enough. 

“Saw you on the TV tonight.” 

Of all things he was expecting his father to say, that sentence wasn’t even in the Top Forty. He’d been afraid of Sam or maybe Charlie watching the evening news, because he knew he’d catch hell from them, but John Winchester? Watching the eleven o’clock news? 

“Yeah?” Before he can think to stop himself, “Did I look fat?” tumbles out of his mouth. 

Dean pauses his pacing, thrilled and horrified with his own daring. He can blame it on the early morning wake up call, or his own irritation at said call, but he thinks that the defiance came mostly from him. It feels better than he could have ever imagined. 

Until of course, John pops his proverbial balloon. 

“You looked soft.” 

This argument again. It’s been the same, ever since he was sixteen and his father decided, for whatever reason, that he was old enough to come with him on one of his ‘jobs’. 

Up until that point, Dean had been a child, willfully naive. He’d swallowed whatever explanations his dad had given him for all sorts of things: the bruised and bloody knuckles, the shiners, the permanent rust stains that seemed to have taken residence underneath his nails. _Falling lumber. Dirt from the site. Got a little too excited with the sander_. God, he’d been so dumb. 

But one night, John had grabbed him, told him to get his coat on, he was going to help him with a job. Dean, still caught in the mantra of _Look after Sammy_ , had cast a glance at his brother, peacefully sleeping the night away. 

“Come on, we’re wasting time.” John Winchester had never been a particularly motivational parent, but that night he was operating on a whole other level of brusque. His fingers, as they pushed Dean out of the room, had been like five steel rods pressing into his skin. Dean, stupid little sap that he was, was actually excited. He’d thought that he was finally getting to connect with his dad. Like maybe, if he pulled this off, he, Dad, and Sam could be a family, and not play at being one. 

He’d stayed quiet the whole drive in the car, clasping his hands together to keep from drumming his fingers on the dash. John had been silent and as readable as the far side of the moon. He never gave any indication what kind of job this was, or why he finally thought that Dean was ready to join him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dean found out exactly what kind of jobs his father worked after the sun went down and his boys were supposed to be in bed. 

Forty-five minutes later, he and Sam were on their way towards Lawrence, Kansas, and Dean, while regretting that decision more times than he can count, has never been able to create a world where he _didn't_ make that choice for himself and Sam. 

He’d gotten himself and Sam halfway across the country. He’d made that call, told his baby brother that it would all be fine. He’d worked forty hours a week in high school to make sure that Sam had a college fund. He’d worked fifty hours a week once Bobby and Ellen kicked his ass into gear and made him realize that Sam wasn’t the only Winchester who could go to college. He’d put himself through school, got his job, held onto it, made a life for himself. He created a family from scratch, and even now he has the man of his dreams waiting in a hotel room for him. 

Soft. 

“Yeah well, it beats looking arrested. Or dead.” 

Hello testicles. It’s nice to see you after twenty-eight years. 

From the sound of him, John isn’t impressed by Dean’s newly found backbone. “Said that you lost.” 

“Came in second. In the state.” Dean’s metaphorical balls start to shrivel. “That’s pretty damn impressive.” 

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. If you ain’t winning, you’re losing.” 

“Why did you call?” Dean tries to keep his voice down, aware that less than fifteen feet away people are sleeping, but his temper yearns to snap. “To heckle me? Are you that bitter?” Too much to hope for that his father remembered his birthday, so he doesn’t even mention it. 

With difficulty, Dean reins in what he was going to say. It’s not going to change anything, and in the long run it’s not going to make him feel any better. 

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, so long that Dean contemplates hanging up. When his father’s voice returns, interspersed with the faint static hum of a bad connection, it’s hesitant. 

“I didn’t want to ask you this but, you remember what we talked about on Thanksgiving?”

“Which part? The part where you insulted my job or the part where you were begging for money?”

“Dean. It’s a temporary situation--I just ran into a little trouble--”

“Goddammit Dad.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “How bad is it?”

“Don’t worry about that.” For years, Dean obeyed that tone, without question. His nerves still hum with the need to snap to attention, but he’s older now. Exhausted. “Look, I just need a thousand--”

“What? A few months ago it was only three hundred. Dad, what the hell are you into?”

“I met a guy,” and his father’s voice is alight with the same obsession that governed Dean’s childhood. “He says he might have some information about the company who laid the electricity in the house.” 

Dean’s fingers tighten around the phone. “It was twenty four years ago. Even if there was anything, the trail’s gone now.”

“So what, you think that we should just give up trying to find out who killed your mom? You really have gone soft, haven’t you?” 

Dean’s temper finally snaps its frayed leash. “Nothing killed Mom! It was just--Bad things happen sometimes and it sucks when they do, but that’s life! There was no plan, no conspiracy--it was just shitty--”

“You shut your damn mouth.” 

Twenty-eight years old he may be, but his father’s voice still has the power to send ice crawling down Dean’s back. He freezes, the fear of a child immobilizing his limbs. 

“You just shut your mouth. After everything we went through--Do you even care?”

“Of course I care!” His voice is too loud. A thin strip of light appears underneath one of the doors and an irate voice tells him to _keep it the hell down out there_. Dean lowers his voice to a furious hiss. “She was my mother, of course I care! But it’s not--” 

A lifetime of rebukes crowd into his throat. Dean chokes on them. 

What to say to this father, who looked at his own sons as though they were strangers? What to say to the man who thought that instead of tossing a ball, he should teach his son how to throw a punch? The man who thought that hotel rooms were more appropriate for his sons than a house? How to explain the resentment, the fear, the need? 

The silence stretches on. Dean lets it linger. 

“This is the best shot that we’ve had in a long time. I can’t afford to let this go. You’d do the same if it were--You never told me her name. The girl that you talked about.” 

Dean’s heart picks up the pace. For years he’s wondered what he would say to his dad if he were thrown into this exact situation. For years he’s come up empty. 

Screw it. He’s always been more of an improv guy anyway. 

“It’s not a girl that I’ve been seeing.” It’s a loose interpretation of the concept, but there are more important things to worry about. “His name’s Castiel Milton and he teaches history at the school. He’s one of the smartest people that I’ve ever met, and he’s funny, and he’s kind--” Dean pauses and sucks in a long breath through his nose. “He’s the best person that I know.” 

Part of him wants to stop, but he can’t seem to put the brakes on his runaway mouth. “And I don’t know what I would do if something happened to him, I really don’t. But if I was lucky enough to have kids with him,” and where the hell did that thought come from, the surge of pleasure at the thought of him and Cas playing proud papas, “then I would do my best to raise them the way that I know he would have wanted. I wouldn’t drag them around the country trying to figure out what happened to him, and I sure as hell wouldn’t blame my kids for him being gone!”

The silence stretches on, long past the point of uncomfortable. If it weren’t for the rasp of his father’s breaths on the opposite end, Dean would think that the call was dropped. 

When it becomes clear that his father isn’t going to say anything, Dean’s shoulders fall. “I can’t...Dad, I’m sorry. It’s always going to be another lead, another guy--This hunt took mine and Sam’s childhoods. I just can’t.” 

He hangs up the phone and turns it off. Tiny tremors shake through his body and despite the previous humidity in the hallway, goosebumps prickle up and down his arms. His nose and eyes burn like he might start crying, but then his stomach lurches and suddenly all he wants to do is retch. 

Somehow he makes his way back to the correct room. It takes him three tries before the lock chirps merrily at him. Dean stumbles into the room. His eyes land on Cas, sitting up in bed, with a book in his lap. He stares intently at the page, but his eyes never move and he never turns the page. 

“Cas.” At the strangled sound of Dean’s voice, Cas snaps the book shut and looks at him. A myriad of emotions cross his face, but within a second, he has his expressions under control once more. 

“Is everything all right?” 

Dean chokes out a thick laugh. Everything is so far from all right, he doesn’t know where to begin. 

His father’s words come back to him: _What would you do if it were him_? 

To have Cas taken from him--To lose him--Dean swallows once, then swallows again. Then walks into the bathroom and vomits a stream of bile and liquor into the toilet. 

The porcelain is cool against his forehead and cheek. Dean spits into the toilet and clumsily wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He groans and accepts the flimsy plastic cup pressed into his hand. The water is tepid and flat but it helps to wash out the sour taste lingering in his mouth. 

Castiel’s fingers are cool and dry as they comb through his damp hair and brush over his clammy forehead. “Come sit down,” he urges, and Dean obeys. He doesn’t have the strength to do anything else. 

Once he’s perched on the edge of the bed, he starts to get his bearings back. At the very least, the room stops spinning. Cas sits opposite him, their knees almost, but not quite touching. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Dean chances a look at Cas. His forehead wrinkles in concern but his eyes are so calm, so understanding. Cas doesn't push, Cas doesn't demand. Dean trusts Cas with almost anything. 

But he can’t trust Cas with this. 

“I…” Dean shakes his head, looking away from Cas and to the floor. “I just...It’s nothing to do with you, I promise--”

“Was it your father?” 

Dean lurches back like Cas just reached out and slapped him. “Why would you--The hell Cas?” he finally settles on. 

The lines in Cas’ forehead etch deeper into his features. “The only other time that I’ve seen you like this was over Thanksgiving when he called. I assumed…”

“Yeah, well maybe you shouldn’t.” The second that the words are out of his mouth, Dean wishes that he could take them back. He wishes that he could remove the whipcrack snap from his voice, because the second that it lashes across the room he can feel Cas withdraw from him. 

Dean buries his face in his hands. He wants to be back asleep again. He wants to rewind this night to just before they went to the hotel bar--maybe he could talk Cas into coming upstairs, maybe they could take a long, hot shower to wash away the day--But he didn’t, and they didn’t, and now it’s four in the morning and Cas is pissed at him because Dean is an asshole who snaps at people who are only trying to help him. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Dean groans. “I just...Can we just sleep?” 

Cas hesitates before answering, “Yeah. Let’s go to bed.” A soft touch ghosts across his knee, and then Cas pulls away. He slides underneath the comforter and rearranges the pillow underneath his head. 

Dean prides himself on his independence. He took care of Sam since he was four years old, he put himself through school, he lives alone. Dean Winchester changes his own tires, fixes his own car. He helps other people. He doesn't ask for anything for himself.

Something in him is cracking and crumbling when he gets out in a small whimper--”Cas?” 

Cas pauses and rolls over to look at Dean. He says nothing, but it’s a patient silence, one that could easily wait until Judgement Day without complaint. 

Every sentence Dean tries to speak turns to ash in his mouth. 

“Dean.” He doesn't notice that Cas has slid out of the bed until he's standing in front of him. Long fingers ghost through his hair and down his cheek. “What do you need?”

Dean keeps his eyes focused on the carpet. It’s the only way that he’ll survive this. 

“Can I...can I stay with you?”

To his everlasting credit, Cas doesn’t play coy and say that Dean is already staying with him. His fingers pause for a moment, caught on the curve of his jaw, before stroking over his skin. “Whatever you need.” 

Cas pulls away and Dean doesn’t whimper at the loss, he really doesn’t. He darts his eyes up to watch Cas getting back into his bed. Dean swallows and stands up. The space between beds is less than two feet, but it seems like miles. 

Neither of them speaks as Dean rests his knee on the edge of the bed. His eyes remain fixed on Cas’ and maybe he should look somewhere else, but he can’t. He doesn’t look away as he lowers himself onto the mattress and it’s only when he goes to flick the light off that he even blinks. The air between them is silent and heavy with anticipation. If he wanted to, Dean could touch the tension thrumming between the two of them.

He flips the comforter over them both in a whisper of cloth and then they both lie there, motionless on their backs. It’s not the most awkward time that Dean’s ever spent in a bed, but it’s up there. His skin crawls, electric with the proximity to Cas, while the lump in his throat grows and his chest constricts. It's getting harder and harder for him to breathe, and the conversation with his father continues to press into the vulnerable places of his lungs. 

This isn’t working. 

Another brick in the carefully constructed wall of Dean Winchester falls away, as Dean rolls over so that he's facing Cas. Cas' head is already turned towards him. In the half-light of the room, their eyes easily meet. 

“Can I...I just...Please.” He’s not making any sense, he knows that. His hand finds the curves of Cas' chest and shoulders in the dark, the tiny frayed edge of his t-shirt. At the first touch of Dean's hand, Cas involuntarily flinches, but he soon relaxes into Dean's soft, exploratory touches. “Cas, I just...I'm sorry, but--I just...I need…” _Let me hold you_. The words wither on the tip of his tongue, but he lets his hands push and guide. Cas acquiesces to Dean's guidance and rolls onto his side, his back to Dean's chest. 

Dean curls in close behind Cas, slotting his knees underneath Cas’ and winding his arm underneath Cas’ head. “Whatever you need,” Cas murmurs, and Dean drapes his other arm over Cas’ waist. His hand rests flat against his chest, right over the gentle rhythm of Cas’ heart. 

His forehead presses into the curve of Cas’ skull, lips ghosting over the back of his neck. He syncs his breathing to the rise and fall of Cas’ chest, letting the steady thump-thump of Cas’ heart underneath his hand guide him. 

“Cas, I…” He trails off. It would be so easy, in that moment, to say it. 

_I love you_. 

He swallows it. 

“Thank you,” he says instead, pushing a swift kiss to Cas’ neck. 

“Whatever you need Dean,” Cas repeats, like it’s his refrain. His hand rests over Dean’s, for just a moment, but it’s enough to have Dean’s heart slamming against his ribcage. 

Curled up like a pair of parentheses, Dean feels the night’s panic and angst start to fade away. He could spend every night like this, he would spend every night like this. 

“Happy birthday Dean,” Cas whispers, his voice thick with sleep. 

It’s the best ending to a birthday he’s ever had. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	14. love the one you hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snow day and a release of tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around lovelies!
> 
> A warning: There be smut ahead. Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

January limps out and February roars in with a week of sub-zero temperatures and wind chills. Winter in Kansas is an unforgiving time. Dean’s least favorite part of the day swiftly becomes the morning trek from the parking lot to the school. At 7:45, the sun is weak and grey, incapable of generating any warmth, and the wind whips cruelly around him. The fabric of his clothes provides no shield for the knife cold slice, and every morning Dean worries that the tip of his nose might be a victim of frostbite. 

He hates February. The days are short and freezing, the excitement of Christmas and his birthday is long gone, and the only holiday is stupid Valentine’s Day. 

He and Cas seem to be on the same page for that particular wormhole, which is: Ignore, ignore, ignore. It’s safer this way. Dean’s always thought that the holiday was a gimmick anyway--Just an excuse for companies to sell overpriced chocolate and overly glittery cards. Cas offers no opinions on the matter one way or the other, but February 14th passes without any comment from either of them. 

Ever since the night in the hotel, things have been...Well, things have been. Dean doesn’t know exactly what ‘normal’ entails, since this whole thing is so new to him. All he knows is that, while the frenzied edge has disappeared, there’s a new tension lurking between the two of them. 

Dean can’t get rid of the feeling that he and Cas are playing a game of chicken, where neither one of them knows exactly what the goal is, or what happens if someone blinks first. He doesn’t even know what would be considered blinking. All he knows is that whenever he and Cas are together, he can feel the weight of Cas’ eyes on his shoulders when Cas thinks he's not looking. He knows that he can’t stop seeking Cas out in every room, and when he finds him, he can’t stop looking at him. 

Dean’s not used to waking up next to another body. Even with Lisa he usually dragged himself out of her bed in the early hours of the morning, when the world was just turning from black to grey. It felt easier that way, like by sneaking out of her bed, he could leave all of his problems behind. Turned out, that wasn’t the best method of problem solving: the problems, sneaky little bastards that they were, just hitched a ride while he wasn’t looking. And while he was busy ignoring them, they multiplied, until they managed to shove him out of Lisa’s bed altogether. 

Waking up next to Cas...well it doesn't suck. 

Turns out that Cas is a furnace in his sleep, and Dean wakes up with sweat dampening the back of his neck, but that’s a small price to pay for Cas’ ankle hooked between his, or his fingers curled into the soft material of Cas’ shirt. The brush and tickle of Cas’ hair against his cheek, and the way that their bodies shifted during the night but remained connected. The comfort that comes from holding someone. The implication of trust which comes from letting yourself be held. 

Carefully, so slowly and carefully, Dean pushes himself up on one elbow. Cas snuffles in his sleep, face wrinkling in discontent before it smooths out once more. Bathed in the dim, pre-dawn light, Dean soaks in the sight. 

He’s seen Cas sleeping before, but never like this, when he can smell the sleep-stale scent of him, and feel the night’s heat radiating off his body. In sleep, Cas looks younger, the worry lines vanished. Occasionally, his face will twitch, slack mouth moving, before he settles. A few soft grunts escape his throat and Dean bites back a smile. For someone who practices the art of silence so much in his waking hours, Cas is a noisy little thing when he sleeps. 

His heart feels like it’s expanding, like if he keeps on staring at Cas for too much longer then he’s going to crack every one of his ribs. He wasn’t meant for this kind of torture, this kind of languid heat pouring through him. He’s Dean Winchester. He’s not supposed to feel this way over someone who has morning breath and is currently drooling into his pillow. 

Warring with the glow is the slithering realization that this is a moment, snatched out of the ether with good luck and good timing. This, the sound of Cas’ low breaths, the feel of him settling in against Dean—this is a fleeting, stolen second. There’s no guarantee that they’ll ever do this again. Falling asleep together, cuddling, much as Dean hates to use that word—that’s meant for people in relationships. Not for friends who enjoy making out. 

Dean rolls into the last half of February confused, resentful, and nostalgic for something that he only got to hold for a heartbeat. Not to mention that he’s fairly certain he has a terminal case of blue balls. Every morning in the shower he fancies that his dick is looking resentfully at him, like it’s determining the best time to jump ship. 

So when the forecast for the next week predicts over a foot of snow, Dean can’t help but be excited. Snow days are God’s gift to teachers, a welcome respite from the mundane drudgery. Also, Dean is secretly five and likes to play in the snow. 

All day Friday, Dean plays hell trying to gain and retain his classes’ attention. The snow is due to start Sunday night, and it’s all anyone can talk about--whether they think the predictions are correct, what they’re going to do, how long they’ll be out of school. Dean plays the part of the stern teacher, repeatedly reminding his students to get back on task and _please just complete the reading, or else you’ll spend the whole weekend doing the reading_ \--

“But if we get the snow then we’ll have lots of time.” It’s bad when Kevin is the one being the smartass. Not even Dean’s patented ‘Teacher Look’ can cow him back in submission. 

“Do your homework anyway. Don’t jinx yourself.” 

When Patience asks if he has any plans for the snow day, Dean knows that it’s total anarchy in his room. He can only hope to make it through the rest of the day unscathed. When the final bell rings, the children burst out of the classrooms. Dean watches them go, only turning when Ellen comes to stand beside him. 

“Are you going to be all right?” she asks without prelude. 

“It’s Friday, I’m always all right on Friday.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” she orders, delivering a light swat to the back of his head. “They say that this snow might actually get serious. You have enough food? Batteries? Blankets?”

“Even enough soap to wash my filthy body.” Dean would roll his eyes but he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t secretly thrilled by Ellen playing the mother hen. 

“Need more to wash out that filthy mouth of yours.” Dean ducks his head and hides his grin in the collar of his button-down. “So, how are you planning on spending your mini-vacation?”

“Long as the power stays on, a whole lot of nothing.” That’s not entirely true--He has enough food in his townhouse to feed the army of Denmark. He’s planning on going on a cooking extravaganza and then settling in with a Netflix queue as long as his arm. “Might catch up on some of my grading.” 

“Uh-huh.” Ellen sounds unconvinced. “Cas mentioned that he was going over to your place.” 

“For...the hell? He’s coming over Saturday! It’s not like we’re planning a damn sleepover.” 

Dean may, however, have other, nefarious plans. Namely, he’s going to sit Cas down on the couch, straddle him, and kiss the ever-loving shit out of him. And then, if he plays his cards right, they may just exchange handies like a couple of teenagers, give him something to put in the spank bank for the cold days ahead. 

Ellen hums low in her throat, her posture screaming disbelief. “Look, sweetie, you know that I’ve got no problem with whoever you do whatever with--”

“Ellen, shut up--” Dean groans, not that it makes a damn bit of difference. 

“But you’ve got to stop this damn run-around with Cas.” Ellen soldiers on, resolutely ignoring Dean. “Look anyone that’s been within twenty feet of you knows--for whatever reason, that boy thinks that the sun shines out of your ass, and you…” Ellen smiles, soft, and brushes her fingertips over Dean’s bangs. “Honey, I have been hoping for you to look at someone like that ever since you turned eighteen.” 

Dean remembers the first time he met Ellen. Nine years old, and he was just coming to terms with the idea that perhaps every adult in the world wasn’t interested in making his life miserable. Dad dropped them off at Bobby’s without warning, and they’d made their way inside, already familiar with the routine. What wasn’t familiar was the woman standing in front of the stove, beer bottle in hand. 

They’d both stared at each other, frozen in surprise. After a moment, Dean’s upper lip curled in an automatic response, while the woman’s eyes softened. A tiny smile curved across her face, and she said, “You must be Sam and Dean. My name’s Ellen.” 

For Dean, who could barely remember his mother, and for Sam, who never knew her, meeting Ellen was a blessing. She’d effortlessly fit herself into the nooks and crannies of their lives, somehow knowing when to push Dean and when to leave him alone to stew. She’d weathered all of Sam’s teenage mood swings, all while dealing with Jo and her angst. He and Sam weren’t hers by blood, not even by marriage. Ellen had no obligation to either one of them. But she picked up two strays off the side of the road and made them family. Made them better. 

So when she smiles at him, and tells him that she wants him to be happy...A harsh prickling sets in behind Dean’s eyes and he blinks to try and clear it away. 

“So do us all a favor and get your thumb out of your ass.” Ellen’s sharp tone returns and the pat she gives his shoulder has enough force behind it to make Dean stumble. “And if that means that you have to invite that boy over for a sleepover then you’d better dust off your glitter nail polish and fix to painting toenails and braiding hair.” 

Dean glares after her retreating figure and wonders why everyone can’t just leave him alone. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Saturday afternoon is grey and cold, with a bite in the air that Dean can only associate with snow. If he hadn’t been religiously checking the weather forecast then he would think that the storm was going to start today. 

Being stuck with Cas through the duration of a snow storm...The butterflies in his stomach are wearing tap shoes. 

As it is, Cas sits at his kitchen table, flipping through a paperback as Dean pokes at the steaks sizzling on the grill. The rich scent of garlic and cooking meat curl through the kitchen, and Dean hums tunelessly under his breath. Meat cooking, the prospect of no school, and Cas? Everything’s coming up Dean. 

“Leave mine on for longer please,” Cas says, not bothering to look up from his book. 

Dean rolls his eyes while he’s transferring his own, medium, steak to a plate. “Don’t talk to me for the next ten minutes.” He pokes at Cas’ steak, watching as the temperature rises. “Well-done steak, are you kidding me.” He continues to mutter resentfully as smoke curls up from the steak. “Grossest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” He’s going to have to wait for Cas to at least have a mint before he kisses him. 

“Excuse me if I don’t want to put partially raw meat in my mouth.” The argument is old, Cas’ tone bored. 

“Coming from the guy who wanted me to try sushi the other day.” At that Cas does look up, a question in his raised eyebrows. “Raw fish. How is that not grosser than a nicely cooked steak?”

“I thought that it would be an interesting place to eat, I wasn’t aware that you had such an aversion to trying some culturally relevant foods--” Cas stops what looks like it’s shaping up to be a good rant as Dean steps in front of him. He knocks Cas’ knees apart and leans over him, hands bracketing either side of Cas' head. 

The kiss is brief and hard. Cas sucks in a surprised breath through his nose but when his hands come up to grab at Dean’s forearms, Dean steps away. He smirks at the frustrated groan that Cas tries to smother. 

“No one likes a tease.” The words sound threatening, but there’s a wobble in his voice. 

Dean pulls Cas’ gross, burnt steak off the skillet and places it on a plate. He sets it in front of Cas with a wide, sweet smile. “No one likes their steak well-done either.” He drops a kiss to the top of Cas’ head and turns back to the stove before Cas has a chance to see the pink blazing across his cheeks. 

All right, so his seduction plan isn’t going as well as it could be. 

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t say anything about Dean’s attempt at 1950’s housewifery, so Dean can eat his (cool pink centered) steak in peace. He winces as Cas saws his knife through his steak, and outright complains when Cas dips the meat into a small pool of steak sauce on the side of the plate. 

“For someone who would live off of diner food if it were feasible, you’re quite the snob.” Cas’ voice is prim and snotty, lips pursed up like an altar boy’s. 

Dean wants to kiss that stupid expression right off his face. 

The conversation remains easy throughout dinner. Dean was surprised, at first, when it turned out that he could talk to Cas as easily as he could Sam or Benny. He’d thought that it would be like talking to an encyclopedia. But, as it turns out, Cas actually does have a sense of humor. It’s just dry to the point of arid, and weird as shit. Lucky then that Dean appreciates sarcasm and is, in his own way, also weird as shit. 

Talking to Cas, hanging with Cas, kissing Cas--everything about him is just so easy. Dean’s never been with someone where he felt like he didn’t have to try and sand off his rough edges, or hide the less than lustrous parts of himself. For three years Cas saw the worst of him, and yet here he is, in Dean’s kitchen, even now taking Dean’s bitching for liking his meat cooked a certain way. 

Maybe Dean’s life sucks in an alternate universe, and this is just God’s way of making up for it. 

He feels a little pity for that Dean--if the suckage is on the same ratio as the awesome, then that poor bastard must be having a hell of a time of it. 

“What about you?” Dean asks, twisting the cap off of a beer bottle. “Any major plans for the snow?”

Cas shrugs. “I have to write some plans. Finish editing an article and submit it. Read a book. Clean my house.” 

“Slow down the excitement train,” Dean huffs. “You’re going to give a guy a heart attack with all that fun you’re having.” He takes a sip and then looks at Cas. “Editing an article for who?” 

Cas’ eyes slide to the side. “The American Historical Review.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I had a colleague from my doctorate program ask me to take a look at an article he was writing. He promised to give me peer-review credits.” 

Dean ignores the little curl of anxiety in his chest. He remembers, faintly, Charlie telling him that Castiel wrote articles. This is nothing new. “That’s good, right?” he asks. He gulps down his beer and represses the automatic belch. 

Cas shrugs, tracing an invisible line on the table. “If you’re more entrenched in the world of academia, sure. For a high school teacher?” He tilts his head, an unreadable look passing over his face. “It creates exponentially more work and helps me not at all.” 

“Uh-huh.” Dean taps the edge of his bottle, his nail making a faint tinkling noise against the glass. “Do you...You ever think about getting into that kind of life?” Cas shoots a sharp look at him. “University stuff, I mean.”

Cas’ posture stiffens and his finger pauses in its journey. It’s been one of the mysteries about Castiel that plagued Dean even before he knew him. A man with Cas’ credentials should not be slumming it in the public school system. He should be lecturing at some university, have at least one book published with a stodgy author’s photo on the jacket cover. Cas even mentioned once, that Michael had wanted him to teach at the collegiate level. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s happily put himself among the dregs. 

“It’s not really my scene,” Castiel finally says. “Publish or perish? Plus, most professors don’t actually teach their classes. I think I’d miss having students.” 

The tightness in Dean’s chest loosens. Not that he thinks he’d lose touch with Cas if, all of a sudden, Cas decided to turn in stale smelling classrooms for the glossy, musty smell of university but...There’s something comforting about having Cas in the same building and on the same schedule. 

“It’s getting late,” Cas says, standing and stretching. “I’m calling it.” 

A jolt of disappointment hits Dean. He’d hoped...All of his fantasies had this night ending with him pushing Cas into the couch, kissing him until he lost that smug self-possession, kissing him until he was panting, kissing him until the thread of self-control snapped. He’d imagined dipping his hand into Cas’ pants, wrapping his fingers around him, feeling Cas shudder…

This line of thought is leading nowhere fast, and Cas is still walking towards the door. “You have to hurry home for your geriatric fun already?” Dean asks. It might come out a little clingy, but this is his last chance to see Cas for probably days. 

His dick gives a half-hearted stir. Dean reads it as a threat: _Do not fuck this up for us_. 

“Well, you know,” Cas hums, enigmatic smile flitting across his face. Hell, he’s shrugging into his jacket, he’s not even hesitating. “Butter isn’t going to churn itself.” 

Dean steps close, crowding Cas against the door. “I’ll...churn your butter.”

The second words come out, he winces. Even Cas looks mildly horrified. 

He used to be so smooth. What the hell happened to him? 

“On that note.” Cas smiles and presses a swift kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Have a lovely time slaving over a hot stove.” He twists out of Dean’s grasp and opens the door. 

The blast of cold air hits Dean like a fist in the gut. So does the realization that there’s already at least four inches of snow on the ground. 

“Oh,” Cas says, opening the door and stepping outside. Immediately, his dark hair is sprinkled by fat flakes. “Oh no.” He turns to look at Dean, snow clinging to his eyelashes. “This was not supposed to happen.”

Dean gapes. He looks up at the sky, to confirm for sure that yes, indeed, it is snowing, and no, there does not appear to be any end in sight. 

“Well, this complicates the drive home.” 

When he understands, Dean’s arm shoots out and his fingers wrap around Cas’ elbow. “You can’t...You’re kidding right?” Cas jerks his arm away with an irritated huff. “Your little matchbox isn’t going to handle this.” He senses Cas’ next question and immediately heads it off, “And I’ll be damned if I take Baby out in this crap.”

“I’ll be fine.” Cas looks at his Fiesta, already covered in snow. “It’s not that far of a drive.” 

“Cas, don’t be stupid.” Did Dean think it was cold outside? It’s nothing compared to the ice in Cas’ eyes. “I’m not going to let you make that drive.” 

“And since when,” Cas steps close to Dean, his voice gone dangerously low, “do you get to let me do anything?”

Dean swallows. Yeah, Cas is pissed, but at the same time, there’s something so deliciously hot about that tone of voice. If they were in a different situation, that tone would have Dean dropping to his knees so fast he’d bruise. As it is, he draws himself up, relying on his extra two inches to look down at Cas. 

“I’ll swallow your keys.” It’s an empty bluff--that threat would land him in the emergency room before anything else--but a disbelieving smile crosses Cas’ face. 

“I can’t…” Cas looks longingly towards his car, then back at Dean. “It would be a huge imposition.” 

“Yeah, you’d have to stay at my house and eat my food, and oh yeah,” Dean ticks on his fingers, “you already do all of that!” Sensing the change in Cas’ attitude, he tugs at his jacket. “Come on. Now I can finally get you to watch all of the original Star Trek.”

He ignores the muttered, “Maybe I can just walk home,” as the door closes behind them. 

\--

 

It’s exactly as easy as Dean promised it would be. The only hiccup comes around eleven, when Dean changes into his sweatpants. Cas, still dressed in his jeans, shifts on the couch, until Dean tosses a spare pair in his face. 

And he’d be lying if he said that the Neanderthal part of his brain didn’t get a thrill from seeing Cas stretched out on the couch in his clothes. 

Dean makes his tenth trip to the window. Now that he knows it’s snowing, he’s drawn to it like a moth to light. The fourth time that he twitches the curtains aside, Cas sighs and kicks at him. “Would you stop that? I can promise you, you’re not going to school tomorrow!”

“We’re snowed in,” Dean says, excitement coloring his words. “There’s got to be at least a foot out there, maybe more. And it’s not stopping! This could break all kinds of records!”

Despite his seeming indifference, Cas joins Dean at the window. “I didn’t know that your interest in meteorology went so deep.”

Dean grins at him, nudging his side with an elbow. “Snow days man. How are you not thrilled?”

Cas looks up at the sky. “I don’t know. The day off is nice.” He catches Dean’s open mouth and shrugs. “There really was never anyone to enjoy the snow with. Anna wasn’t much for playing outside and everyone else...Michael and Lucas were too old to want to play in the snow, Raphael would be caught dead before he would be caught having fun, and Gabriel…” Cas’ nose wrinkles in disgust. “Beware the yellow snow,” he says, with a theatrical shudder. 

“Tomorrow,” Dean says, throwing his arm around Cas’ shoulders, “you and I are going to have a snowball fight like the Lord intended.” 

He ignores Cas’ remarks about how he’s read the Bible and he’s fairly certain that snowball fights don’t enter into any of the scriptures. Instead, he starts planning snow forts, and attack plans, and wondering just how much Cas will scream with a handful of snow dumped down the back of his shirt. 

Everything goes well until a yawn cracks Dean’s jaw. Cas looks at him, suddenly furtive and guilty. “It’s getting late.” 

“Yeah.” Dean stretches and stands. “Come on. You get the bed.” Cas’ jaw sets in what Dean knows well is his stubborn look. “Don’t argue with me. You’re the guest, you get the bed.” Bobby might not have been the best person to learn manners from, but he taught Dean this much: whenever you have a guest over, they get the best of everything, including the bed. 

“And you’ll sleep where? The floor?”

“Jesus, don’t be dramatic. I have a couch and a futon in the spare bedroom, it’s not like you’re making me sleep on a bed of nails.” 

“Or you could sleep in your bed, where you sleep every night.” 

“And then what about you?”

Cas blinks, shy for the first time. “I wasn’t aware that the two could be mutually exclusive.” 

Dean reels, because is Cas...is he? Teeth come out to nip at his lower lip, and he _was_. “Yeah,” he says, voice scraping out of his throat. “That’ll be fine.” 

He flicks out the lights downstairs before ascending the stairs. He very carefully does not look at the ass in front of him, very carefully avoids thinking about sinking his teeth into that ass. It’s a lot harder than it looks. 

Cas waits for him at the top of the stairs. Despite the hard set of his shoulders, there’s something soft about him. Dean ghosts his fingers across his chest, feeling the heat through the thin barrier of his t-shirt. Cas shivers in response, eyes darkening. “Dean,” he warns, though his raspy voice does nothing to calm the blood raging in Dean’s body. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Dean says, realizing after that those words will do nothing to calm either one of them. “To sleep,” he clarifies. He doesn’t think that he’s imagining the faint frown of disappointment on Cas’ face. He’s disappointed in himself, though a little relieved. Hand-jobs were one thing, but sharing a bed...That has _implications_. 

“You first.” Cas gestures towards the bed, and he sure as shit isn’t making this any easier for Dean. 

He is glad, though, that he changed the sheets this morning. 

It’s weird, both of them sliding into the bed together. _Like a couple_ , Dean’s brain gleefully says, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shut that voice up. He suspects that it’s because part of him doesn’t want to. 

They’re not small men, either one of them, and while Dean’s queen bed fits both of them it’s almost impossible to settle in without brushing against the other person. Elbows, knees, feet, shoulders--they all touch each other and each time a little jolt of electricity, of _want_ surges through Dean. 

_You idiot_ , his dick bemoans. _Couldn’t even do this right for us, could you_. 

“Goodnight Dean,” Cas mumbles, his profile visible against the white wall. Dean swallows, his throat dry. 

“Night Cas.” 

He tries to sleep, he really does, but something about Cas being next to him turns every single one of his nerves into a firework. The sound of Cas’ breath, the small sounds of skin shifting against sheets, the faint scent of Cas permeating his sheets and pillows--all of them are like a continuous shot of caffeine to his brain and there’s no possible way that he could sleep. 

“Dean.” 

The sound of Cas’ voice startles Dean out of a restless doze. He jerks his gaze over to see Cas rolled over on his side. Moonlight through the blinds catches his eyes and skin, turning them both luminous. 

“I can’t sleep with your squirming.” 

“Well, what the hell do you want--” Dean’s protests die in his throat as Cas tugs him closer. He goes pliant, despite every instinct screaming at him to pull away--He doesn’t cuddle, and he sure as shit doesn’t let himself be maneuvered like a personal body pillow. However, that’s exactly what he lets Cas do, until he’s on his back, with Cas’ leg thrown over his shins, one hand resting on his chest. 

“Go to sleep,” Cas orders. 

Dean exhales, long and shaky. “Cas, don’t you think that we need to--”

“I think that we need to go to sleep.” Cas’ tone brooks no argument, while his fingernails press soft crescent warnings into his chest. 

“Cas, you know I ain’t one for talking--”

His words are stopped by Cas leaning over him, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. Dean sighs into the contact, whimpering softly when Cas pulls away. “Then don’t,” he says. Dean opens his mouth and Cas sighs. There’s frustration in the sound, as well as something that sounds a little like desperation. “It’s almost one the morning. Please, let’s just sleep.”

Cas’ fingers trace feather-light circles on his chest, as soothing as they are maddening. Dean relaxes into his touch. His chest rises and falls in tandem with Cas’, each exhale stirring dark hair. He knows that he should keep pushing. He knows, rationally, that every relationship, romantic, familial or otherwise, cracks and breaks without communication to plaster the holes. He’s old enough to know that whatever he and Cas are doing isn’t sustainable. He should push. He should keep on pushing until he has a definite answer, one way or the other. But he can’t forget the plea in Cas’ voice, not to mention, if he pushed, then he’s certain he’d get an answer that he doesn’t want. 

So he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, dreaming of what the morning will bring. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean shuffles back into the realm of consciousness with the acute awareness of the body next to him. 

His breath catches in his throat, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his sluggish brain tries to catch up. His mouth isn’t sour with the lingering remnants of drunkenness, so the chances of a drunken tryst are slim to none--

The body next to him groans softly before shifting closer. Soft, dark hair brushes against Dean’s nose and oh, that’s right. Cas. Cas and the snow. Cas and the snow and now he’s in Dean’s bed. 

Sharing a motel bed was one thing. Dean spent his childhood splitting crappy motel mattresses with Sam. He’s passed out on futons with Jo after a night out, he’s spent nights curled around Benny and Charlie after one of their parties. On occasion, he would spent the full night with Lisa and wake up with the scent of her shampoo in his nostrils. 

But to wake up in his own bed with Cas…

Possessiveness, the like which he’s never experienced before, squeezes hot and tight around his chest. Here, he can believe that Cas is his to keep, to hold. 

Cas is in his bed, curled up underneath his sheets like he belongs there, and all Dean can think is that he _does_ belong there. 

Heat flows through his body and pools in his groin. Their positioning doesn’t help. Sometime in the middle of the night they shifted so that they’re on their sides, facing each other. Cas’ ankle is still hooked around Dean’s. Their knees brush. 

Morning wood is something that Dean’s come to live with, like stubbed toes and sinus infections. He’s never felt the potential of it before, the flesh between his legs hardening as his eyes travel over the plumpness of Cas’ bottom lip, the shadow of his collarbone almost hidden by the neck of his t-shirt. 

Cas shifts in his sleep, closer to Dean. Dean clenches his fingers in the comforter in a futile attempt to stop himself from rutting forward. He wants, god Christ, does he want, his blood boiling out a fever of it. He might pass out from the combination of his heart rate and the fact that his blood flow is directed below his waist. 

His hips jerk forward, and that’s in, Dean rolls out of bed, suddenly uncaring if he wakes Cas or not. All he knows is that he has to get out of there before he does something that he’s going to regret, like molest his best friend while he’s still asleep. 

He snatches at a pair of boxers thrown over the chair, hopes they’re clean, and snatches a band shirt from his laundry basket full of clean, unfolded clothes. Behind him, he hears an unhappy groan, but he ignores it in favor of shutting himself in the bathroom. 

Cold or hot shower, Dean contemplates for a brief moment before he decides to hell with it, and turns the knob to the left. When steam starts billowing through the small bathroom, he steps into the shower. His cock, flushed red and angry, bobs resentfully against his stomach.

It takes only a few pulls and then he’s coming all over the tile wall. Dean sighs and shoves his forehead underneath the showerhead. When his wobbly knees threaten to give out, he slaps his hands against the wall, bracing himself. 

He showers quicker than his wont. He’s terrified that Cas might try to come in while he’s in the shower, or worse yet, while he’s trying to get out of the shower. With that thought racing through his mind, he towels off quickly, leaving his hair in damp little spikes. His t-shirt clings to the wet places on his back and shoulders, and his boxers want to ride up his crack, but at least he’s not greeting the world naked. 

Steam billows out of the bathroom when he opens the door and Dean gingerly creeps back into his room. This is the worst kind of reverse one-night stand he can think of: normally he’s tiptoeing around a stranger’s house, gathering clothes like breadcrumbs from the night before, and sneaking out, all with the care of a burglar. Now he’s sliding through his room, careful not to step on the creaky parts of the floor, as he snatches a pair of sweatpants. All the while, his eyes remain fixed on the lump in his bed. Cas is either asleep or damn good at faking it, because he never stirs. 

Once Dean’s downstairs and in the kitchen, he can breathe a little easier. He can forget all about Cas being in his bed and focus on the rituals of the morning. He slides the blinds back on the sliding door to reveal--Wow. That’s...a lot of snow. 

It’s at least eighteen inches, if not more, and Dean’s heart sinks as he realizes that he’s not getting out any time soon. The complex where he lives is usually good about scraping, but with snow this deep, it’s unlikely that the roads are going to be clear enough for anyone to even get to the parking lot. He and Cas are definitely going to be stuck here for another night. 

It’s with a strange mix of jubilation and anxiety that he starts making breakfast. 

Bacon and eggs. Bacon and eggs are simple, a man’s breakfast, except something shifts along the way because then he’s making pancakes as well. Not just sad, flat things either, no, these are fluffy buttermilk wonders, with edges so crisp and buttery that they practically melt in your mouth. Over years of caring for Sam, Dean’s become quite the pancake expert and he has yet to be outdone. Not that he’s biased or anything. 

Even the soft pad of feet behind him can’t throw him off his rhythm. “That smells nice,” Cas says, voice still rough with sleep. Dean dares to turn around to find him knuckling at his eyes, hair gone from _I just had sex_ to _Rodents frequently use this as a base of operations_. He’s barefoot, wearing the same sweats and shirt that he went to sleep in. 

“Morning sunshine.” Cas glares, his eyes narrow slits underneath his fringe. “I made coffee for Mongo,” Dean says, ruthlessly repressing the urge to kiss the befuddled, morning-irritation off of Cas’ face. 

Cas grunts, but accepts the mug Dean offers to him. He sips while lingering at Dean’s elbow, not in the way but not necessarily unobtrusive either. “You’re making pancakes,” he finally says, eyes losing some of their blurriness. 

“Great observation Sherlock.” 

Dean can _feel_ the force of the snide eye-roll that Cas gives him. 

“Move, would you? These are going to burn.” Dean easily bullies Cas out of the way, bumping his hips into Cas’ until he's forced to move. He slides eggs onto plates before putting the pan into the sink and flipping off the range. He turns to grab the pancakes to put on the table, only to find his way blocked. “All right, seriously man, you’re going to have to-”

He trails off as Cas runs a soft hand over his chest. It’s not seductive. Instead, the heat lighting in Dean’s body is a softer, steadier glow. Cas leans up, head already tilted to the side. 

Cas’ mouth tastes like coffee, which is kind of gross, but Dean can’t mind. Cas’ right hand curves around his neck, pulling him down. Dean’s hands find a home on Cas’ hips, thumbs dipping underneath the hem of his shirt to rest in the hollows of his bones. Dean’s tongue sweeps leisurely over Cas’ lips, and smiles at the resultant hum. It’s the same satisfaction and happiness reflected back at him. 

He’s never had this before. Breakfast, coffee, kisses that aren’t meant to entice or arouse...He’s sinking into all of this like a warm bath and he should be more scared that this is all so easy. That this, Cas sliding around him, warm hand trailing over his waist, that this could be something that he wants forever. 

 

\--

Turns out that Dean’s clothes fit Cas fine. For the most part. 

Cas is a little beefier in the thigh department than Dean, so the fabric of his jeans clings like a second skin, like it was painted on and Dean has to remind himself to keep his gaze strictly above the waist. For reasons. That don’t have anything to do with how much he wants those thighs wrapped around his head. 

Cas still looks dubious when Dean drags him outside. Moreso when his foot sinks knee-deep into the snow pushing up against Dean’s doorstep. Dean, invigorated by the cold, whoops and jumps. A spray of snow flies up in his wake, mingling with the snow still lethargically falling from the sky. 

“We’re not going to school for weeks!” he whoops in exaltation. 

“I’m not sure that I understand the point,” Cas remarks. He still has yet to venture out in the meager front yard, and that simply will not do. “There’s no point in shoveling, since it will just get covered up anyway, and I’m almost certain that my ancestors did not develop the concept of shelter so that their descendant could come outside during foul weather and _argh_!”

The exclamation comes courtesy of one (1) snowball thrown at his face. Dean might not be pitching for the majors but he can aim a snowball from ten feet away. Cas sputters and scrubs at his face, his eyes wide with shock. “The hell do you think you’re--Dean!” Cas dodges another snowball, but he’s not fast enough for all of them. “Dean!” His gravel rough voice rises in pitch the longer that he tries to dodge, until he looks up. Righteous wrath is written all over his face. 

Dean might have bitten off more than he can chew. He loves it. 

“Cas, come on, we’re friends right?” Dean holds out his hands, wide smirk on his face. “Cas, what’s a little snow in the face amongst friends. Come on, there’s no need to...Cas, what are you doing?”

It’s the last thing he gets out before Cas launches himself at Dean. Apparently, such mundane tactics as creating snowballs are beneath him. Instead, Cas opts for all out destruction. Two strong arms wrap around Dean’s torso and drag him down to the ground in a tackle. 

The snow cushions his fall and all Dean can do is laugh as Cas sits on his waist. “Of all the immature, childish--” He grabs handfuls of snow and dumps them on Dean’s face and neck. Dean bites back a manly shout at the cold dribbling through his shirt. Cas doesn’t let up, and the sound of his laugh is almost warm enough to melt the snow around them. 

He does however, leave himself vulnerable when he twists to get more snow. Dean makes his attack, heaving Cas off of his stomach and dumping him into the snow. Cas huffs out another laugh as Dean shovels snow on top of him. 

“Can’t we talk about this, Dean, agh, that’s _cold_ \--” 

They must look like a pair of idiots, rolling around in the snow, but it’s the most fun Dean’s had in months. His smile threatens to split his face in half and his laughter wheezes out of him in quick bursts. 

For a wiry little guy, Cas is a lot stronger than he looks. He pushes at Dean until Dean’s flat on his back, squinting up at the sun through the clouds. They should probably go inside. Even through the fabric of his gloves, his fingertips are tingling with numbness and he’s long since passed the point of comfort in his legs. Melted snow seeps in through the fabric of his jeans and it should be desperately uncomfortable, but Cas sitting on his stomach can make up for a lot of wrongs. 

The touch of damp fabric on his cheek brings Dean back to the present. Cas grins down at him, sweet and sunny. “I think that I understand the attraction now,” he says, as serious as if he were discussing a dissertation. That’s before Cas leans down and kisses him. 

Uncaring of whoever might be watching, Dean winds his arms around Cas’ shoulders. Cas smiles against his lips, his own hands bracing his weight on Dean’s chest. Yeah, his ass might be numb, but Cas’ little moans more than make up for it. 

Until the little son of a bitch shoves a handful of snow up his shirt. 

A scream that is a little less than manly rips out of Dean’s throat as he jumps to his feet, dislodging Cas from his lap. Cas cackles at him, no doubt endlessly amused by how Dean stamps his feet, curses, and threatens wild retribution. “You asshole,” Dean hisses. He points his finger at Cas, whose shoulders still ripple with laughter. “You...complete and utter asshole.” 

So yeah, his butt and toes are numb, his fingers prickle painfully every time he tries to wiggle them, and now melted snow is most definitely going to end up near his crotch but. 

Watching Cas laugh makes it all more than worth it. 

\---

 

The shower becomes a larger obstacle than it should be. 

Dean’s townhouse has one shower and two dripping wet, shivering men. 

Dean clenches his jaw to stop the chattering of his teeth. “Take the damn shower man.”

Cas shakes his head. It’s akin to being trapped in a small room with a wet golden retriever. “It’s your house Dean. Please take the shower.” 

Dean really doesn’t want to have this talk with someone who’s dripping water onto his carpet. It’s the bed debate all over again, except this time it’s a shower. You can wear sweatpants to bed, hell, if you really wanted to, you could wear a parka. You don’t have that option with a shower. 

It lingers between the two of them-- _We could shower together_. 

Cas. Naked. And wet. Next to Dean. Also naked. Also wet. 

He’s dizzy from the thought of it. But he’ll also be damned if he’s the first one to mention it. 

Cas licks his lips, eyes shifting from Dean to the bathroom door and then back again. There’s something deliberate about the gesture. Dean’s breath runs ragged in his chest. 

“I’ll go first!” he says, voice a little high. Cas blinks, mouth opening in confusion. Dean ignores him and pushes past Cas into the bathroom. He closes the door with a firm click and takes a moment to gather himself. 

Even though shivers wrack his body, there’s a heat blossoming underneath his skin. It spreads like a wildfire until Dean thinks that he might burst into flame with it all. For the second time that day, he cranks the shower on, hot as it will go. 

The day spins out before him, the hours coiling tighter and tighter around themselves, to the point of breaking. Dean can’t help but wonder what happens when the thread finally snaps. 

\---

 

The rest of the day passes easily enough. After their showers, Dean and Cas settle into the living room. Cas flips through his paperback from the night previous while Dean tries to beat the latest level of Tetris on his phone. At some point, Cas drags a blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over the both of them. He leans into Dean and Dean automatically lifts his arm for Cas to slide underneath. 

He realizes, when his free hand comes up to play with the tips of Cas’ hair, that they’re in too deep. This, right here, the cuddling, the breakfast, the comfortable silence...This is couple shit. He spent a year with Lisa, dragging in his heels and fighting against any hint of commitment, of any sign that they were really dating. Everything that she begged him for: family dinners, lazy weekends, quiet nights in...They’re all the things that he’s fallen into so effortlessly with Cas. 

It’s his particular brand of Dean Winchester luck and karma that ensures that he wants to be in a relationship with the one person who’s said he doesn’t want one. 

Dean swallows down the sour taste in the back of his throat. “Hey,” he says, punctuating his words with a soft tug on Cas’ hair. Cas hums and flips another page in his book. “Cas.”

With obvious reluctance, Cas marks his place and closes the book. He shifts his eyes to look up at Dean and the words almost come tumbling out.

_I love you. I don’t think that I’ve ever loved anyone outside of family as much as I love you. Please be with me. Stay with me and let me take care of you and never leave me. You are absolutely everything to me_. 

Instead Dean forces a smile and says, “What do you want for dinner?”

\--

It’s been a day. 

It’s been a good day, which almost makes it worse. If it had been an awkward day, then Dean would at least know. He’d be able to go to bed knowing that yeah, he and Cas are good friends, and maybe there’s a bit of a spark between them, but at the end of the day, they’re just not compatible. 

But no. It’s been amazing day. He’s laughed more today than he has in several weeks, and heard Cas’ low laugh rumbling through his house. His toes still curl at the memory of breakfast, when Cas’ sleep pliant body pushed against his. And after dinner, when they were both full and a little stupid with it, they curled back up underneath the blanket. Cas’ hand came to rest on Dean’s thigh, fingers stroking up and down. His dick, which had been in a state of high alert all day, came back online with a vengeance. Dean froze, while Castiel proceeded to drive him insane. 

And then it was time for bed. 

There’s none of the awkwardness of last night. No, this tension comes from a day’s worth of kisses, of showers, of Cas’ long fingers playing over his body like he’s nothing more than a nice piano. Dean meets Cas’ eyes as he flips back the sheets and comforter. The click of his swallow echoes through the room. 

And then Cas, dressed in Dean’s shirt and Dean’s pajamas, is sliding into Dean’s bed and looking at Dean with heavy-lidded eyes. Dean’s mouth goes dry and he slides into bed beside Cas. His feet search out Cas’, tangling their ankles together. Cas’ head lolls to the side, his face in shadow from the soft light of the bedside lamp. 

Dean’s tongue flicks out over his lower lip. “Cas.” His voice comes out as a low rumble. It’s a good thing that he’s lying down because he doesn’t think that his body could manage to remain standing on its own. 

Cas’ fingers trace feather-light touches over his hairline, down his nose, over his cheeks. Dean’s breath hitches as Cas’ fingers move over his lips, tracing the curve of his upper lip, pulling on the jut of his lower lip. Dean whimpers at their loss, even as they move over the line of his jaw. 

The hours and minutes wind tighter and tighter, pulling at Dean until he thinks that his chest might burst. 

“Good night Dean,” Cas says, his voice low and wrecked. His fingers linger on Dean’s cheek for a second longer before he pulls away. 

Tighter and tighter, the minutes coil around each other. 

 

\---

Dean’s sleep is not restful. 

He tosses and turns, always conscious of the body next to him. No matter which way he turns, he can’t seem to find a position which brings him relief. His back aches, his arms are sore, his head buzzes, and every single motion from Cas acts like a bullhorn to the inside of his skull. 

Dean startles awake from a fitful doze. He and Cas are in the same position as this morning, on their sides facing each other. He glances over Cas and Cas’ eyes stare back. 

Neither blinks. Dean swallows and tries to get some moisture in his mouth but it disappears when Cas reaches out and places his hand flat against Dean’s chest. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

Dean’s throat clicks with his swallow. “No,” he rasps. He traces over Cas’ fingers, down his wrist, and bicep. He uncurls his fingers and places his hand on Cas’ chest, mirroring Cas. His fingers spread wide. 

Dangerous territory, especially when his thumb finds the peak of a nipple underneath Cas’ shirt. He brushes against the nub and watches Cas’ eyes go wide with surprise. He brushes again, firmer, and Cas gasps, the sound harsh in the silence of the room. 

“Dean,” he says, voice strangled. His chin lifts, in invitation, in challenge. “Dean, I…” Dean moves his thumb, but not far. 

Cas’ fingers dig into his chest while his free hand finds Dean’s. Their fingers interlace. 

“You’re shaking,” Cas whispers. His tone lands somewhere between pleased and awestruck. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He feels them, minute tremors shaking through his body, anticipation winding him tighter and tighter. 

“Are you cold?” 

A sarcastic denial is on the tip of Dean’s tongue before he realizes--this is Cas giving him a chance to say no, a final chance to gracefully bow out. 

It’s the last thing that Dean wants. 

“No.” Dean moves closer, legs tangled, knees brushing, chests touching. His nose pushes against Cas’. “No, I’m not cold.” 

Days, hours, minutes--Now the seconds twist around each other. Tighter and tighter, Dean’s body shaking with need, with anticipation, with fear, with exhilaration...Tighter and tighter until it snaps. 

Cas’ mouth is hot and insistent, his leg slinging over Dean’s hip and pulling him closer. Dean moans, the sound lost between his mouth and Cas’. His thumb, released from whatever obligation it had, brushes over the nub of Cas’ nipple. Cas gasps, throwing his head back. Dean nips down the expanse of throat, teeth scoring down day-old stubble. 

“Cas, Cas, I gotta...Is this…” 

Cas nods, pulling at Dean’s side, his hips. “Yes, yes,” he groans, and that’s all the permission Dean needs. 

His hands fly to the bottom of Cas’ shirt and between the two of them, it disappears. Cas’ hands push at his shirt and Dean carelessly rips it off, letting it flutter to the ground. Hands push at Dean’s shoulders, urging him onto his back and he goes. 

Cas moves with a fluid grace, shedding blankets to roll on top of him. Dean groans at the hot slide of skin on skin, his hands roaming over Cas’ back, his shoulders, up to grip his hair as Cas licks a hot stripe up the side of his neck. Cas moves down, nipping at his collarbone. Dean’s back arches, his hands landing on Cas’ hips to hold him steady. 

“Ah, fuck,” Dean pants, helpless as Cas licks and sucks a path down his chest. A hot tongue scrapes over his nipple and Dean whines in his throat. His hips push up, into Cas’--

Cas’ cock brushes against his and even through four layers of clothes, the feeling is still electric. Dean groans with the sensation, head spinning with the realization--Cas is hard, just as hard as he is, Cas wants this, wants _him_. Above him, Cas freezes, pupils blown wide as he looks down at Dean. Then he grinds down and Dean throws his head back with a moan. 

This is...This is beyond what they’ve ever done, what they discussed. They said that they were Friends Who Occasionally Make Out, not Friends Who Dry Hump, but Dean doesn’t want to change it, not now, when Cas’ fingers dance over his skin, mapping the ladders of his ribs. 

Cas moves down his body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Dean’s legs spread, hips thrusting into nothing as Cas pulls away. 

“Cas, come on man, please--” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but Cas’ fingers dancing along his waistband might be everything that he wanted. 

“Can I?” Cas looks up at him, eyes huge and almost black in the dim light. 

“Yeah.” Dean swallows, anticipation heavy in his gut. “Yeah, god, go for it.” 

A flash of teeth in Cas’ grin and then those long fingers are at his hips, dancing over the waistband of his sweats. Dean arches up and in one fluid motion, Cas pulls both his sweats and his boxers off. He throws them over his shoulder without ever taking his eyes off of Dean. 

Dean shifts under Cas’ eyes. His cock rests heavy and flushed on his stomach and underneath Cas’ gaze a blurt of precome bursts out to rest on his stomach. At any other time Dean would be embarrassed by the swiftly spreading dampness on his belly, but there’s no room for that, not when Cas’ eyes are wide and hungry on his. 

Cas lowers his head and Dean’s muscles clench in anticipation. Warm breath washes over his cock, down to his balls. A hot tongue traces the line between thigh and groin and that is really just…

“Don’t fucking tease,” Dean groans, one hand finding the curve of Cas’ skull. He pushes, trying to get Cas’ mouth where he wants it, but Cas, ornery bastard that he is, resists. 

“What do you want?” he asks, and Dean didn’t think that Cas’ voice could reach a new register of low, but there it is, scraping over his nerves. 

“I want…” It’s impossible to think with Cas’ mouth that close to his dick and the bastard knows it too. The tip of his tongue flits out and ghosts over the head and Dean whines deep in his throat. “Oh god, your mouth, jesus Cas, please--”

His voice cuts out as Cas wraps his lips around his cock and Dean has to clench his fist and count backwards from twenty so he doesn’t come to that image alone. “Fuck,” Dean breathes out, low and needy. His fingers comb through the sweat-damp dark hair, palm resting against the curve of Cas’ skull. 

Cas sucks and Dean’s hips lift in response. Several grunts escape from deep in Cas’ throat as he starts to bob his head up and down, tongue working over Dean. One final suck and Cas pulls off with an audible pop. He pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

The kiss is unexpected but not unwelcome. Dean licks into Cas’ mouth, the taste of himself heavy on the other man’s tongue. His hips push up into Cas’ in an unspoken plea. 

“You are wearing too many clothes,” Dean murmurs. It’s all the warning he gives before he rolls, pinning Castiel underneath him. 

A dazed, pleased smile floats across Cas’ face as his fingers drift over Dean’s shoulders and chest. “Then do something about it,” he urges, a smug curl to his lips. It disappears when Dean sneaks a hand down between them, cupping Cas through his sweats. Cas’ eyes roll back and his hips roll into Dean’s hand, craving more friction, more anything.

Dean nips down Cas’ chest, lavishing the golden skin with attention. He wants to memorize everything: the little hitches of breath as he lays an open-mouthed kiss to the skin above Cas’ heart, the symphony of sighs that accompanies his downward path. “ _Haa-ah_ ,” he pants when Dean sucks a bruise into the sharp spur of his hip. “Ah, Dean, please.” 

Dean rears back, looking at the picture in front of him. Cas looks utterly debauched--hair wild, eyes dark, lips spit-slick and swollen. His legs splay wide, with Dean in between them. Even as he watches, Cas lifts his hips in obvious invitation. 

He’s dizzy with the sight. This is Castiel Milton, Cas. His best friend, laid out in front of him like a banquet. There’s the overwhelming potential for awkwardness, but somehow it’s not. It’s just _right_ , the way that Cas arches up into his touch, the breathy exhalation when Dean’s fingers wrap around his fabric covered erection. 

Cas groans, biting down on his lower lip. His hips move upwards in small, aborted thrusts, fingers clenching and groping in the sheets. “Now who’s _ah god_ teasing?” Cas is trying so hard for confident, but his voice is thready, wrecked. 

Dean grins. He pulls at Cas’ sweats, his smile spreading at how eagerly Cas lifts his hips. He works them down Cas’ legs, throwing them to the floor. Clad only in his boxers, Cas shifts underneath the heavy weight of Dean’s eyes. 

Dean drinks in the sight, until a sharp heel to his kidneys knocks him out of his reviere. “If you’re not going to touch me, then I’ll take care of it myself.” Cas moves to palm at his erection, before Dean snatches his wrist. 

“Don’t you dare,” he snarls. A smug grin spreads across Cas’ face, the manipulative son of a bitch. Just for that, he pins Cas’ wrist to the bed and lowers his head. This close, he can’t miss the damp spot spreading on the cloth, or the way that Cas squirms when his humid breath hits him. 

He’s had this done to him before and he remembers it as the best kind of torture. Cas feels the same way, if the litany of moans and whimpers is anything to judge by. Dean licks at him through the fabric of his boxers, providing enough heat and friction to tease, but not nearly enough to get off. 

Above him, Cas is moaning loud enough to put a porn star to shame, the top of his head resting against the pillow. His neck is bared in a long stretch, hands clasping at nothing on either side of him. 

Yeah, sucking Cas off through his boxers isn’t going to cut it. 

Dean pulls away, ignoring Cas’ unhappy whine. Somehow, in the push and tussle, Cas’ boxers are torn away, leaving them both blissfully bare. 

The slide of skin on skin has Dean biting back a groan as he buries his face into the crook of Cas’ neck. He pants, tongue running over Cas’ skin as he rolls his hips forward, cock sliding wet into the crease of Cas’ hip. 

He thinks he could come like this, Cas against his, the salt of his sweat on his tongue, fingers pressing into the skin of Cas’ shoulders, his sides. He ruts forward once again, Cas’ thighs tightening around his hips, a punched out groan escaping from his lungs. 

Far away, he registers Cas shifting underneath him, hands pushing at him. It takes everything in his power to pull away, but he does, only to witness Cas rolling onto his stomach. 

The implications are not lost on him. 

“Cas, you, you sure?” Dean’s mouth is dry, arousal a raging fire pouring through his body until he’s gone with it. It will kill him right now if Cas says no. 

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean over his shoulder. His eyes are dark, but so, so sure. “Get on with it,” he orders, raising his hips and fuck, he doesn’t have to ask twice. 

Dean leans forward, cock sliding across Cas’ skin, as he fumbles in the drawer of his bedside table. He finds what he’s looking for easily enough and dumps the lube on the bed beside him. 

The click of the cap sends a shudder through Cas and Dean runs his clean hand down his flank. “Fuck,” he breathes, skirting his knuckles over the swell of Cas’ buttocks. It looks just as good as he’d always imagined. “On your knees sweetheart, come on.” 

Cas shifts easily, legs widening. Dean moves into position behind him, warming the lube up between his fingers. He has to rest his forehead on the small of Cas’ back as his fingers dip between the cleft of Cas’ cheeks. 

He runs his finger around the rim, appreciating Cas’ quiet whine. “Stop teasing,” Cas urges, his voice like warm tar, sweet as sin. 

From there, Dean works quickly. He goes slow enough that he’s not in danger of hurting Castiel, but there’s an urgency to his motions, only fueled by Cas’ exhortations. 

He pauses for a moment, when he’s three fingers in. Cas’ legs are wide, small shivers wracking his body with every thrust of Dean’s fingers. His hands are clasped in front of him, almost like he’s in prayer, and his head hangs low on the bedspread. Every movement of Dean’s hand pulls more sounds out of him, and Dean’s drunk on them, on Cas. 

“Ah, Dean, Dean,” Cas pants, pushing back against Dean’s fingers. “I’m ready, I’m ready--” 

Dean presses on Cas’ prostate, dropping his head onto the sweat-tacky skin on Castiel’s back at the sound of Cas’ thin wail. “Fuck,” he curses, pressing kisses along Cas’ spine, the blades of his shoulder, the dip of his waist. “Fuck, all right, all right.” 

He pulls his fingers out, dropping a kiss to the small of Castiel’s back. His fingers are too shaky and slippery to open the condom wrapper, so he rips it with his teeth. The touch of his hand on his cock is good, too good, and Dean sucks in a wobbly breath as he slicks himself up. 

Cas looks at him over his shoulder. “You could hurry up,” he suggests, arching his back further. 

Cas looks like every wet dream Dean’s ever had. Muscles rippling under tan skin, cock hanging heavy and hard between his legs, legs spread wide in readiness. Dean squeezes the base of his cock, a warning to himself. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes, “Dean, come on.” The demanding note is swiftly fading, underneath the plea, and Dean can’t resist that. But this isn’t what he wants. 

“Not like this,” he says, hand gentle on Cas’ hip. “Want you like this.” 

Cas resists, for the barest of seconds. Tension seizes his muscles, before he relaxes and rolls. 

If he’d thought that Cas was wrecked before, then he’s obliterated now. “God,” Dean breathes, pressing a hard kiss to Cas’ jaw, to his mouth. Cas twists his fingers in his hair, panting raggedly into Dean’s mouth.

“Come on,” he whispers, rolling his hips up against Dean’s. “I’m ready for you, I’m so ready--”

“Yeah, shit, just--” Dean grabs at a pillow, shoves it underneath Cas’ hips as he hooks Cas’ leg over his elbow. 

He’s really going to do this. He’s really going to fuck Cas. 

He’s dizzy, trembling, panting, but Cas’ hand is on his cheek, stroking over the bone, and his eyes are so soft, so kind, so trusting, and this is everything that Dean’s wanted, this is the man that he loves, pliant and ready beneath him--

Dean inhales, ragged and lost, as he begins the slow slide in. 

Cas arches underneath him, hands grabbing at Dean’s wrist and shoulder. “Oh God, fuck sweetheart, you feel so good Cas, you’re so--” Dean groans, rolling his hips in small increments. He drops his head to Cas’ shoulder, shudders at the feel of Cas’ nails scraping over his scalp and down his neck. Cas thrusts up against him and Dean moans helplessly as he sinks all the way into him. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Cas groans, and the sound of the curse falling from Cas’ lips has Dean’s hips grinding, rolling. “Oh god Dean, god, you feel…” He trails off, eyes rolling back in his head as Dean begins a slow rhythm. 

Pleasure sparks down every inch of him--from Cas’ hands running over his back to grab his ass, Cas’ heels drumming against his sides, the taste of Cas’ sweat as Dean brushes a kiss over his sweat-damp hair. 

“Cas,” he chokes out, letting his forehead fall onto Cas’ shoulder. “Cas, I don’t think that I’m going to--” Already he can feel the low curl of pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach. He’s climbing, flying, and he can’t bring himself to hold back. 

“Do it, do it, fuck Dean, need this, need you--” 

Dean’s hips roll, each thrust pushing Cas further up on the bed. He pulls Cas’ leg up higher, searching, searching--He knows that he’s found the spot when Cas goes stiff, his back arching as a harsh cry tears from his throat. 

“Oh fuck Dean, there, right there, don’t stop, god, _Dean_ \--” 

Cas reaches down between them to wrap his hand around his cock, but Dean bats his hand away and takes him in hand. 

“Want to see it, want to see you, god Cas baby, want you to come…” 

He’s rough, probably too rough, as he jacks Cas in sloppy strokes, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Cas’ nails scrape over his back as his thighs tighten around Dean’s waist. There’s a flush on his chest and cheeks, and Dean wants to kiss every centimeter of flesh in front of him. 

“Dean, I’m going to--fuck, I’m gonna, gonna-- _Dean_ …” 

With a loud wail, Cas comes over Dean’s hand and his stomach. Dean works him until Cas is trembling and twitching, breath escaping him in short puffs. 

“You’re so amazing, god Cas, fucking look at you, god you’re so hot, feel so fucking good baby--” Dean presses kisses to Cas’ forehead, his eyelids, cheeks, mouth, throat. “So fucking good to me…” 

He makes to pull out, but Cas’ thighs tighten around his hips. “Want you to finish,” Cas murmurs, a loose smile on his face. His eyes are hazy as he looks up at Dean, tenderly tracing the line of Dean’s mouth. “Come on,” Cas says, as he clenches around Dean, and fuck, that’s just not fair. 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. He picks up an erratic rhythm, too close to the edge for finesse. Blindly, he seeks out Cas’ mouth, panting harshly into a kiss that’s little more than an exchange of breath. “Oh fuck, Cas, Cas babe, god, _Cas_ \--” 

“Come for me Dean,” Cas says, hands tugging at the short strands of his hair while he clenches once more. 

Dean comes in a white blaze, the circuits in his brain shorting out until all he can feel or think is _Cas Cas Cas_. He thinks he hears himself shout as he elbows give out and he falls forward. 

The feel of Cas’ fingers carding through his hair brings him back to full awareness. Dean becomes aware that he’s lying on top of Cas, face pressed into his neck and arms wrapped around his torso. It must be uncomfortable, but Cas doesn’t complain, just presses a light kiss to Dean’s forehead. He’s tough, for a little nerdy dude. 

Dean also becomes aware that they’re both naked, both sticky, and that his dick is still in Cas’ ass. He tries to control the sudden tension, but he must not do a good job. Cas’ fingers stop moving. 

“Are you going to have a meltdown?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Cas. 

“Please don’t.” Cas’ fingers trace abstract designs over the skin of Dean’s shoulders. 

Dean kisses the bolt of Cas’ jaw, lips scraping over stubble. “I don’t…I don’t want to ruin this.” 

“Then don’t,” Cas says, like it’s that simple. 

Maybe it is. 

Cas hisses in discomfort as Dean pulls out. He ties off the condom and tosses it in what he hopes is the direction of the trashcan. “I need to clean us up,” he says, pressing a kiss to the small wrinkle beginning to form between Cas’ eyebrows. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

He walks to the bathroom on unsteady legs, smiling at Cas’ lazy “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He looks at his reflection as he dampens a washcloth. His hair stands straight up in uneven spikes, his face and shoulders are flushed a vibrant pink, and lovebites are scattered like jewels over his chest and waist. _I just had sex with Cas_. 

Correct that: he just had _amazing_ sex with Cas. 

Cas watches him with appreciative eyes as he walks back into the room. Dean flushes under the attention, which makes Cas’ smile widen. “Shut up,” he says, even though Cas hasn’t said anything. He wipes off Cas’ stomach, focusing all of his attention on his task, the cloth moving in long strokes long after the last of the mess is gone. 

He presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the damp skin of Cas’ stomach, smiling at Cas’ contented sigh. The washcloth ends up in the general direction of the laundry hamper, discarded as useless after Cas tugs at his shoulder. 

“Come back to bed,” he says, low and inviting, and how can Dean say no to that? 

He and Cas curl around each other, fingers tracing over skin and muscle, lazily trading kisses until they fall asleep. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	15. let your love cover me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected find and an unexpected call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Discussion of violence, as well as a (brief) scene of child abuse.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The snow keeps them out of school for a whole week. 

It’s _awesome_. 

The morning after, Dean wakes up to Cas placing feather light kisses over his shoulder. When he groans and reaches for him, Cas smiles impishly at him before sliding out of his grasp. “Shower?” he asks, the corner of his eyes crinkling with the invitation. 

Dean’s befuddled brain finally catches up--Cas, naked in the morning, tilting his head to the side as starts towards the bathroom. _Shower. Together_. 

Well, hell yeah. 

Showering with Cas is just about everything that Dean could have hoped for. Cas’ hands, slippery with soap, stroke over his arms, his chest, his waist. Dean throws his hand against the wall as Cas drops to his knees and moves his hands over his thighs. Cas has nice hands, long fingers, and they curve around his thighs, smoothing over the wet hair, thumbs brushing over the soft skin close to his groin. 

His dick, which had been taking an interest in the proceedings, decides to wholeheartedly join the party. 

Cas has pretty lips, Dean decides, and they’re never prettier than when they’re wrapped around his cock. Dean stands with his back to the spray, his hands on either side of Cas’ head as he starts to move. “Ah Jesus,” he hisses. His toes curl against the floor of the tub when a hand comes to fondle his sac. “Fuck, Cas,” he groans, chancing a look down. 

Wide blue eyes look up at him through a curtain of clumped eyelashes. Dean is transfixed, fixated, reverent. “Your fucking mouth,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over the corner of Cas’ lips. “Fuck Cas, look at you.” 

Cas redoubles his efforts, going further and further and does he not have a gag reflex? The muscles of his throat massage the head of Dean’s cock before he pulls off, only to move back down again. 

“Gonna come,” Dean warns, hands smoothing over Cas’ hair. “Cas, Cas, I’m gonna--” He tries to pull Cas off, but Cas only digs his fingernails into Dean’s thighs and sucks, until, with a guttural shout, Dean comes. Cas swallows, lips and tongue working over Dean until he’s over-sensitive and trembling. 

Cas seems perfectly content to stay on his knees, his forehead resting against Dean’s hip, but Dean’s still jittery. He needs to touch, needs to please. “Come here,” he mutters, hauling Cas up. It’s a chore--Cas is a solid guy and Dean’s still wobbly from orgasm, but his need outweighs the logistics. 

He pushes Cas against the wall of the shower, mouth crashing down on Cas' in a hard, needy kiss. He can still taste himself and it should be gross, but there’s something unbearably hot about his tongue licking Cas clean. 

One soap slick hand wraps around Cas’ cock. Dean moans into Cas' mouth, dizzy with a burst of renewed lust. Cas got this hard from sucking him off? Jesus Christ, what he wouldn’t do for this man. 

Cas pulls away from his mouth to gasp out a breath. “Oh god,” he whines, hands grabbing at Dean’s biceps. “Dean.” 

Cas really does sound like he’s trying out for a spot in the newest Casa Erotica, his moans and pants echoing off the bathroom tiles. Dean crowds him, nipping at his ear. “That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, tugging at the lobe with his teeth. “You sound so good Cas. You gonna come for me baby?” He moves his mouth to the juncture of Cas’ neck and shoulder, sucking a bruise into the flesh. A thin cry comes out from between Cas’ clenched teeth. 

“Come on Cas,” Dean encourages, his wrist moving in a blur. “Want you to come; want to see it.”

Cas’ fingers press into Dean’s arms, ten pressure points of bright pain. He hopes he’ll bruise, wants a physical reminder of this moment, something that he can push against and remember-- _here_. He and Cas were here. Dean twists his wrist and Cas spills with a choked cry. 

Afterward, Dean wipes him off, tenderly. He soaps the vulnerable softness of the inside of Cas’ elbow, the flesh underneath his navel. Cas hums at his attention, his hands wandering over Dean’s flesh. They stay in the shower until the water threatens to move from tepid to cold, stumbling out and wrapping themselves in towels. 

By Tuesday night, Cas is able to go home. Dean doesn’t want him to go, but between him and Cas raiding his closet everyday, he’s rapidly running out of clothes. He kisses Cas at the door, hand splaying possessively on the small of Cas’ back. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, forcing himself to pull away. If not, then he might just drag Cas back upstairs and ruin yet another pair of underwear. 

When school resumes, nothing changes. He and Cas continue the same as they always have, professional to the end. Dean thinks that they’re doing a fantastic job of keeping everything on the level. Charlie swiftly abuses him of that notion. 

“I can’t believe you!” she hisses, sliding into his room after last period. Dean’s door shuts behind her, and he looks up, nonplussed, from grading his papers. 

“I am rather wonderful, but a little explanation would be enlightening.” 

Charlie’s next words knock the smartass out of him. 

“You slept with Cas?”

Dean looks up from his papers, no longer amused. “What gave you that idea?” he asks. He’s trying to keep his voice even, because he doesn’t want to give himself away any more than he already has. 

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Apart from the fact that you came in with an honest to god smile on your face, and that Cas actually asked me how my week off was?” Dean looks at her, uncomprehending. “Normally I get a grunt from him in the mornings, and that’s if I’m lucky. Also, I’m secretly psychic and you do not have a good poker face.” 

Dean frowns. He’s great at poker. “Look, say that you are right and something did happen. You can’t…” He sighs and scrubs at the back of his neck. “You can’t say anything. It’s just...It’s just between friends. If anything happened.” 

“Dean.” Charlie sits on a desk, her face uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve got to know that this is a bad idea, right?” 

“I said if something happened. If something happened it would be a bad idea.” 

Charlie throws her hands up in the air in surrender. “You know I’m here for you, whatever happens. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 

Dean laughs, something jagged scraping in his chest. “It’s never going to come to that.” 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean is almost thirty. His libido should not be this out of control. 

But something about Cas is like catnip--the way that his back arches, the curve of his throat. The feel of his fingers as they open Dean up, the soft murmurs as he slides in. The way that he moves, slow and assured. How he kisses afterward. How his eyes go soft and hazy. The way that he looks at Dean, like Dean might actually be worth something. 

Dean doesn’t like to think about what Cas sees when he looks at Dean’s eyes. 

By March, Dean has mapped out Cas’ body. He knows all the hot spots, the hidden places that are guaranteed to make him gasp and pant: the inside of his knee, the soft spot behind his ear, the dip of his clavicle. In return, Cas knows him: knows how Dean likes it a little rough sometimes, knows that Dean shivers when someone whispers filth in his ear, knows that Dean likes to be caressed and kissed afterward. 

Every single door that Dean could think to slam shut, Cas opens, before Dean ever has a chance to realize that the door even exists. 

He’d like to think that he’s slowly but surely chipping away at the wall surrounding Castiel. Sometimes, when they’re lying in bed, sticky and sated, Cas will look at him and there’s nothing in his eyes but honest affection. 

He’ll let certain things slip sometimes--how he once traveled over five hours just to visit a gallery that had been displaying Anna’s paintings. Or he’ll recount his cousin Gabriel’s exploits, with equal parts humor and disdain. He’ll confide that Michael and his cousin Lucas couldn’t be in the same room for over ten minutes without fighting; how one time he saw Lucas throw a chair across the room in an attempt to hit Michael. 

In return, Dean whispers secrets from his childhood into Cas’ skin--How Sam and his father could never get along, how Dean played the peacemaker and how his brother and father tore him apart. How he learned to cook to make sure that Sam would have a decent meal in front of him. How he would take his father’s bottles and empty them down the sink, risking his rage the next day, all because he just couldn’t take it anymore. 

Truth falls like stones from his lips and it feels a little like an exorcism. 

And then, there are the fun times. 

Saturday mornings are the best. The whole weekend lies in front of him with a myriad of possibility and his muscles are the good kind of sore which comes from a long fuck and an orgasm that felt like it was sucked out of his spine. Dean stretches out in Cas’ bed. He’s alone, which, while disappointing, isn’t unexpected--it’s warm for early March and Cas, the weirdo, likes to run in the mornings. A note, written in Cas’ thick blocky handwriting, rests on the bedside table, informing Dean of his whereabouts. 

Dean rolls out of bed, scratching at his stomach. He frowns when evidence of last night’s revelries flakes off underneath his fingernails. “Gross,” he mutters, rolling his neck and stepping into the en-suite. 

After the shower, Dean wanders back into the bedroom. He paws through his overnight bag, huffing in frustration when he can’t find a spare pair of boxers. “Kidding me?” he asks, digging through the clothes one more time. 

After he left Dad and moved in with Bobby, Dean thought that he was through lugging his life around in a duffel bag, but here they both are, packing up Friday mornings like teenagers preparing for a sleepover. He’s told Cas, several times, that he’s more than welcome to leave some of his stuff in a drawer, but Cas did his Cas thing, where he slid so neatly around the offer that Dean didn’t realize he’d been rejected until days later. 

He hasn’t bothered to ask Cas if he can leave clothes over at his place. 

So he keeps an overnight bag in the Impala’s trunk at all times, and sometimes he packs more hastily than is wise. Hence his current dilemma. He could go commando, but, apart from the obvious erotic value, the idea of his junk hanging free in his jeans doesn’t sit well with him. One option left. 

“Cas buddy, I’m going to borrow a pair of briefs, all right?” Dean calls to the empty house. He smirks at the silence and goes to Cas’ dresser. 

He finds the underwear drawer easily enough and fishes around without looking too carefully--it feels creepy, to look that closely at someone else’s boxers. He stops when his fingers brush against an unexpected texture. Putting his reservations aside, Dean peers in the drawer. His eyebrows shoot all the way into his hairline when he pulls out the small glass jar. 

“Well, well, well,” he says, tapping his fingernail on the jar. “Mr. Milton, you’ve got some explaining to do.” 

Cas comes back from his run thirty minutes later. His shirt is stained dark at the collar and pits, and his ass looks criminally good in his running shorts. Even from the other room Dean can hear the obnoxious pop music blaring from his earbuds. 

“Thought you would have had breakfast started--” Cas looks up and sees Dean. More importantly, he sees the small glass jar and pipe sitting in front of Dean. 

“Whatcha got here Cas?” The grin tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth and he tries to tamp it down. 

“That’s the emergency stash,” Cas says, matter of fact, as he lifts up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead. “Don’t know why you went rooting around through my unmentionables for it. Would have given you some if you’d just asked.” 

Dean gapes, as his mind performs gymnastics to rearrange the pieces of Castiel Milton into something that makes sense. Dr. Castiel Milton, who edits journal articles in his spare time. Castiel Milton, who is allergic to fun and social gatherings. Castiel Milton, who has an emergency stash of weed tucked away in his underwear drawer. 

“College was an...interesting time,” Cas remarks, standing in front of Dean. His knees knock against Dean’s, and Dean can’t help but think that he’s being deliberately confrontational. “You can’t tell me that you forsook all your habits from your college days?”

Forget college days--Dean was seventeen, splitting a joint with Jo while they lay out in the bed of junker pick-up, bitching about life, school, and everything else under the sun. He remembers how the stars blurred together into a ball of light and the edges of the world going soft and hazy. 

Dean smiles. “Get your shower,” he orders, with a light slap to Castiel’s ass. “We’re going back to mine.” 

“Why?”

Dean snatches the jar and pipe from the coffee table. “Because my place has the better sound system.” 

Which is how they end up, Saturday afternoon, stoned and on the floor of Dean’s living room, while Led Zeppelin III spins on his turntable. Dean laces his fingers with Cas’ and squeezes, grinning at the plaster swirls in his ceiling. It’s a mellow high, one that leaves him floating and calm. For once, he’s at peace with the world. 

Cas’ head lolls over. His smile could light up a city and it’s all directed at Dean. A small laugh burbles out of his chest and Dean grins wider in response. He lifts up a heavy hand, stroking over the permanent stubble on Cas’ cheek. 

The only thing that could ruin the moment would be his phone buzzing in his back pocket. 

“Don’t answer,” Cas says, like he knows what’s on the other end. Maybe he does. Psychic powers wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about him. 

The name on the display shatters Dean’s high. 

_Dad_. 

“Don’t answer,” Cas urges, his hand resting on Dean’s stomach. “You don’t owe him anything.” 

Sam’s voice, echoing back at him: _Dean, please don’t answer. What do you owe him_? 

Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the years of disappointment and regret. Maybe, after so long, he’s finally decided to listen to someone else. 

He pushes the dismiss button and tosses his phone across the room. 

A weight lifts off his chest, like he threw away a few dozen sandbags instead of a tiny piece of metal and plastic. His lungs expand. The air tastes sweeter somehow. A world of possibilities stretches out before his fingertips. He’s dizzy with it. 

Castiel sneaks his hand underneath Dean’s shirt, hand rubbing over his bare skin and Dean arches into the touch. “Here,” Cas says, moving with fluid grace to straddle Dean’s hips. The lighter flicks in his hands and a small flame illuminates his eyelashes as he takes a hit off the pipe. Cas inhales and looks down at Dean, red-rimmed eyes gleaming with mischief as he covers Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean’s mouth opens for Cas, and he inhales the thick smoke. His eyes water as he holds his breath, until a small cough wracks his frame. 

“That’s it,” Cas murmurs, rucking Dean’s shirt up to beneath his armpits. “Take it so good.” A lazy smile drifts across his features, and Dean’s never seen him so loose, so untethered from the cares and concerns of the world. For the first time, he thinks he understands what freedom is. 

He forgets about his phone, about his father, about the weight of his family pressing down on his shoulders like Atlas’ burden. He forgets about the crunch of concern in Charlie’s face, forgets about his own misgivings. All of his worries float away, like smoke drifting out of Cas’ mouth and Dean watches them dissipate in the air. 

Hands drift and clothes are shed like regrets until Dean lays between Cas’ legs, lips wrapped around his cock. Cas’ fingers rake through Dean’s hair, thighs tensing around his ears. His back arches as Dean runs his tongue down the vein on the underside of his dick, nails scratching bright red marks down Dean’s neck. 

Despite Cas’ urging, Dean takes his time. The soft strains of Tangerine float through the room and Dean smiles. 

“This was playing in the car,” he tells Cas. He rests his chin on Cas’ thigh, meeting blue eyes as Cas props himself up on his elbows to look down the length of his body at him. “The first time you ever sat in Baby.” The memory floats back--rain beating on the roof of the car, Cas still a foreign entity but becoming more familiar with each passing second. “Should have kissed you then,” he blurts out. 

“Oh Dean,” Cas sighs, elbows giving out as Dean returns to his task. “Oh, Dean, Dean, _Dean_ …” Cas’ leg pulls up to rest over Dean's shoulder, the heel of his foot rubbing down Dean’s back. Dean works over him, tears springing to his eyes as he bobs up and down. He’s choking, gagging, spit dribbling out of his mouth and over his knuckles, wrapped around the base of Cas’ cock. 

Cas shakes, hung on the precipice, until Dean scrapes the edge of his teeth against him, and then he’s coming, back curved in a graceful arch, thighs clamping around Dean’s head. He cries out, curses spilling like rainwater from his mouth. He’s so fucking gorgeous that Dean thinks his chest might crack in two.

Cas reaches for him with clumsy hands but Dean ignores him, crawling up his body to sit on his hips. His fingers wrap around his dick, and he groans in relief. It only takes him a few strokes and then he’s coming in hot stripes across Cas’ stomach. 

He collapses afterward, soothed by the feel of long fingers running through his hair and over his back. Cas croons along with the music, humming a wordless lullaby. Languid in the aftermath, Dean lets himself give in, lets himself believe that finally, after everything, someone is going take care of him. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

John Winchester calls Dean three more times in the next two weeks. 

Dean presses ‘Ignore’ on every one of them. 

For the first time since he was four years old, he feels free.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

March passes in a blur of wedding preparations and orgasms. Thankfully not delivered in the same company. 

Dean attends more fittings than he knew was actually possible, though it makes sense. Not that many tailors are equipped to handle giant bodies these days, figures that it would take extra fittings to get it right. What he doesn’t understand is why Sam insists on having his suit fitted to perfection. 

“Because you’re going to be standing next to me through the ceremony and I want everyone focusing on how pretty Jess is and not how ugly you look,” Sam says. Normally Dean would think that he’s kidding, but there’s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. 

God help him, Sam Winchester’s turned into a Groom-zilla. 

“I could be wearing a burlap sack, wouldn’t distract anyone from how ugly you look. Thank god Jess is there; she’ll at least keep the cameras from shattering when they try and get a picture of you.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and straightens his tie in the mirror. Small pins hold his jacket in place and even though he’d rather die than admit it, when the final product is delivered, Sam’s going to look good. 

Not as good as Dean of course, but not hideously ugly. 

He also starts organizing the stag party--Sam insists that he doesn’t need one, but Dean will be damned if he doesn’t give his brother the best bachelor party known to man. 

There’s going to be strippers. 

Sam might complain, but Dean couldn’t live with himself if he organized a party without strippers. Sam needs to not be so selfish. 

Between researching the best strip clubs within thirty miles of Lawrence (he loves being best man), helping his seniors with their projects, and having his brains fucked out on a regular basis, Dean’s life is full. It’s a good feeling, one that leaves him with the heavy feeling of satisfaction every night. 

He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It falls with a world-shattering thud early one Wednesday morning. 

He’s startled out of a strange, shifting dream, one that slips through his fingers as soon as he tries to remember it. The phone rings insistently next to his head and Dean operates automatically, protective instincts crashing through their confines. “Sammy?” He asks, putting the phone to his ear. He struggles with the sheets tangled around his ankles, frustrated with the disobedience of his sleep numb body. 

“Is this Mr. Winchester?” 

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Dean freezes. Ice floods through his veins and he’s drowning, watching his life through a cloud. The surface falls away from him. 

“Who are you?” He asks, fear turning his voice gruff. “How’d you get this number?” 

“Mr. Winchester, my name is Deputy Lane—“

“Where’s my brother?” Dean asks, fumbling one-handed with his jeans. He can’t breathe. A dull roar settles in his ears and he can’t breathe. 

“Sir, your brother is fine, but you’re on the emergency contact information for a John Winchester.” 

The thin line holding Dean tethered to the world snaps. His chest moves in a vain attempt to bring him air, but his lungs are gone, broken. He thinks that the sensation crowding through his body might best be described as _hurt_. 

“Sir? Are you there?” 

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, as he remembers how to move his mouth, how to create sounds in his throat. “What...what happened?” 

The too-long pause on the other end of the line tells him everything. 

—

 

Dean sits shaking on the floor. He’s aware of the neck of the bottle clutched in his numb fingers, but his limbs are strange to him, like he’s piloting someone else’s body. He raises the bottle, drinks deep. The whiskey burns on its way down, it must, but he cannot feel it. 

Sam. He needs to call Sam. 

It takes him three tries to find Sam’s name in his contacts and another two to dial. He listens to the tinny sound of the phone and wonders if he’s always felt this cold. 

After three rings Sam answers, his voice sharp with worry. 

“Dean? What’s wrong?” 

Dean’s mouth works, an ugly mess of syllables clawing out. Sam’s voice rises. In the background Dean hears Jess, stirring and questioning. 

“Dean, you’re freaking me out, you have to tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt? Where are you?”

Dean tries again, wheezing as he forces his larynx to form the words, “Sam, it’s Dad.”

Sam falls silent. Any other time it would be comical. 

The world tilts and shifts around Dean as he says, “Sam, Dad’s dead.” He inhales. The oxygen feels like razorblades in his lungs. 

When he speaks again, Sam sounds like the child he used to be, lost and afraid. “Are...are you sure? Maybe it’s a mistake--”

“It’s not a mistake Sammy.” Dean’s throat constricts around the words, trying to keep them in. “He’s gone.” A taste of bile in his mouth. There’s nothing left in his stomach; the remains of his supper already spattered the toilet. 

“What--Dean, are you all right?” 

“No Sam, I’m about twenty miles away from all right.” 

When he was young, John brought them to an old farmhouse while he chased down what he thought was a lead--someone seen in their neighborhood two days before the fire. While he questioned the farmer, a grizzled man with a face like leather, Dean and Sam had wandered through the knick-knacks and discarded flotsam and jetsam accumulated through three-quarter’s century living. There had been an old wringer washer there. They’d been fascinated by it, the crank and the press. The twist and pull of clothes as they were pulled through. 

Those clothes have nothing on how Dean feels. 

“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Sam says, and over the line, Dean hears the soft rustle of clothing, the soft thumps of feet falling along the floor. Jess’ low murmurs provide background noise and something in Dean wakes up from the stupor. _Take care of Sammy_. 

“No Sam, don’t.” The rustles stop. “Look, just...stay with Jess all right?” Dean swallows, bright pain flaring through his chest, and he tries to control the warble in his voice. “It’ll be okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

“Dean, you’re insane if you think that I’m going to--”

“Sam.” Dean puts as much force behind his voice as he can but it still comes out sounding more like a plea. “Just stay put, all right? We...I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hangs up and his phone falls from nerveless fingers. With the pulse of _Take care of Sammy_ appeased, there’s nothing for him to do except try and go back to bed. 

Dean looks at his bed, takes in the twisted sheets, the rumpled pillows. It looks like a warzone and his stomach twists in warning at the thought of returning there. “Fuck,” he whimpers, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Spots burst behind his eyes and he pushes harder, past the point of pain. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” 

Caught in a loop, his voice rises, hysteria and despair dragging bloody nails through him. He looks at his phone and remembers ignoring his father’s calls, remembers the giddy edge of disobedience that rushed through him. He’d thought it was freedom. 

Freedom and cruelty feel similar without the filter of compassion. 

A thousand thousand memories rush at him, a tidal wave of regret and resentment bowling him over until Dean’s choking under the weight of it. His father’s hands, correcting his posture as he teaches Dean to take potshots at old beer bottles, his father stumbling back into the hotel room, the antiseptic smell of alcohol mingling with the bright copper scent of blood. His father’s figure, bent underneath the hood of the Impala, hands sure as surgeon’s as he worked. His father’s smile, rare as a double rainbow and twice as coveted. Sam and John, turning hotel rooms into battlefields and Dean into their no-man’s land. 

John calling and calling, looking for help. Dean ignoring him, playing the selfish asshole that his father always said he was. 

His phone echoes with the sound of ringing and it takes Dean a long second to realize that he’s dialed a number. He blinks dumbly at the screen but his swimming eyes can’t make out the letters on the display. He clutches the thin plastic rectangle like a lifeline, listening to the echo of the ringing. 

After four rings, the line picks up. 

“Whaizzit?” Cas’ voice, roughened by sleep, slurs the words until they’re barely intelligible. “What do you want?” 

Dean flinches at the sharp irritation in Cas’ voice. A thin whine fills the room and it’s only after a long silence on the other end of the line that Dean realizes it’s coming from him. 

“Dean?” Cas’ voice is more contained, more focused. “Dean, what’s wrong?” 

Dean inhales but his lungs come up empty. “It’s my dad,” he wheezes. Iron bands wrap around his chest, squeezing like the hand of judgement. Bad son, he’s a bad son, after everything that his father did for him… “He died last night.” 

Cas’ sharp inhalation slides through the phone line. “Are you alone?”

Dean’s eyes move dully around the room, like someone might have snuck in while he wasn’t paying attention. “Yeah,” he mumbles. He tries to get up but only manages to flail and knock over the bottle. Dark amber liquid spills onto the carpet. Dean watches the stain spread before his numb fingers manage to close around the bottle and right it. “Sam...Sam’s with Jess. Told him to stay.” 

“Dean.” Cas pauses. “I’m so sorry.” 

The words sound empty, because they are empty. There’s a gaping maw spiraling inside Dean and in it, all vestiges of comfort are devoured. Cas’ words vanish there. 

“I was kind of expecting it.” Until he says it, Dean wasn’t aware that the words were true. “I’ve been expecting it for years.”

Hasn’t that always been his fear whenever an unknown number flashes across his screen? That on the other end of the line is going to be a doctor or deputy telling him that this was it? That years of drinking had taken their toll and John Winchester’s liver had decided to abandon ship? That his father wrapped another car around a tree? 

Dean had always known that this is where their story was going to end, but he’d known it in the same, ephemeral way that he knew that eventually he was going to retire and silver was going to wind its way into his hair. John Winchester dying was something that would happen to a Dean that was far away in the future. John Winchester doesn’t die when his son is twenty-eight, not on a mundane Wednesday morning, not when Dean’s clad in his neon-orange novelty boxers, not without an apocalypse to mark his passing. 

“It doesn’t mean that it’s easy.” Cas’ voice echoes through the phone line and Dean inhales. His lungs inflate with vague surprise, like they’d forgotten their original purpose. 

The sour taste of bile rises hot in his throat and Dean tries to swallow it down. His Adam’s apple bobs convulsively once, twice, before the acidic burn recedes. “Shit,” Dean breathes. He takes another pull from the whiskey bottle, alcohol scorching a path down his esophagus. “Cas, I can’t...Talk to me man.”

He can imagine Cas’ expression--the small startle of surprise, the curious tilt of his head. “You want me to talk to you? Now?”

Dean rubs a shaking hand over his eyes. “Look, my dad is...Yeah man. Talk to me. Tell me anything.” There’s a long silence on the other end, and then Cas begins to speak. 

“When I was eight, Dad had a good spell. It lasted for about a month and he did all sorts of things...went to Anna’s recitals, took me to the library, decided that we were going to see the world. It was in the middle of summer and he just loaded Anna and me into the car and started driving. He barely gave us time to pack our bags before we left.” Cas huffs a small, mirthless chuckle. “We thought that he was getting better; that this was the cure we’d been hoping for. We didn’t realize yet that it was another symptom.” 

Dean leans against his bedroom wall, elbows resting on his knees. One hand holds the phone to his ear, while the other holds the ever lightening weight of the bottle. He listens to the words, letting Cas’ voice drift over him, a blanket created from nothing more than syllables and intentions. 

“He went north first. We were going to Yellowstone, he told us. He wanted us to see Old Faithful. And we made it to Wyoming, within thirty miles of the park. And after that, he just...stopped. It was like he just ran out of gas. He just lay in the hotel room, wouldn’t get out of bed. Anna and I had to grab cash out of his wallet and go across the street to the Waffle House just to get something to eat.” 

Cas’ voice sounds off, his breath hitching at strange, uneven intervals in the middle of words. “I remember looking at him and hating him. He was so pathetic, just lying in the bed, watching daytime television. He wouldn’t even let the maids into the room. And Anna was trying her best, but she was a child, falling apart at the seams, trying to keep both of us safe…”

“You hated him,” Dean murmurs, the emptiness swirling inside him, eager for new memories, new experiences to swallow. Even that can’t quite erase the sinking pit of disappointment in himself. How many times had he fallen asleep staring at his father’s silhouette on the opposite bed, hating every rise and fall of his chest? How many times had he thought that his life would be better if his father were dead? 

“Yes,” Cas answers, and it’s only because Dean’s listening for it that he hears the wobble in his calm voice. “But I look back and…” The hitch in his breath is audible and painful when he says, “He was trying, the best he could, in impossible circumstances, to be a father. To try and make memories for his children. It’s not his fault that he couldn’t make it all the way there.” 

If this is a metaphor, then its meaning is lost on Dean. 

A strange noise catches his attention. It’s a soft thud, coming from downstairs. Dean’s head jerks up as sluggish alarm tries to seize his body. “Cas, there’s something...Someone…”

“It’s fine Dean,” and why does Cas’ voice sound so close, so clear? Dean glares at his phone in confusion, even shakes it. “Dean, it’s going to be fine, I promise.” 

A soft touch ghosts along his jaw and Dean instinctively jerks away. It’s not until the touch returns, firmer this time, that he recognizes the size and feel of those long fingers as they curve around his cheek, cradling his head. 

“Cas?” he croaks, blinking in confusion. Cas’ face is blurred, but it’s him, eyes wide with compassion and worry as he kneels in front of him. “What’re you...How’d you?” 

“I started driving as soon as you called,” Cas answers. “And I’m not the only one who can’t hide a spare key,” Cas tells him, stroking over Dean’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’m here now. You’re going to be all right.” 

Dean leans into Cas’ touch. For the first time since he answered the phone, he manages to take a full breath. His chest loosens and he inhales again, eyes blearily taking in the ruin of his bedroom. 

He forgets, sometimes, Cas’ strength. When Cas puts his hands underneath his arms and lifts him to his feet, he’s reminded. Dean’s feet scramble underneath him, but a sturdy arm around his waist stops him from collapsing back onto the floor. “Come on,” Cas says, his voice a soothing rumble against Dean’s body. “Come on.” 

He isn’t aware of much: the whiskey and seeping numbness have taken care of that. It’s only when he becomes aware of chill air on his bare skin that he protests. “The hell man?” He pushes weakly at Cas, who barely flinches underneath the assault. “I don’t want…”

“You need a shower.” Cas’ voice is calm, implacable. “Come on, you’ll feel better.”

Personally, Dean thinks that Cas is putting a little too much faith in the restorative powers of a shower, but he yields. What else is there for him to do? Cas’ hands are gentle as they work his pajamas off his hips, comforting, but somehow impersonal. One hand rests on his hip as Dean steps into the shower, compliant as a child. 

He sputters underneath the hot spray, blinking away water and licking his lips. Blood long stagnant and sluggish moves and he flexes his fingers. He coughs and his shoulders sag. The constant, steady pressure of a hand between his shoulder blades keeps him upright. “It’s ok,” Cas says, voice barely audible over the hiss and spit of the showerhead. “You’re all right.” 

Dean doesn’t believe him, not for a second, but he acquiesces to the unspoken requests of Cas’ hands--Turn here, Move here, Lean this way. It’s easy, to let himself go and follow orders. There’s freedom in this too, in the illusion of having no choice. 

“Easy,” Cas says, and Dean sighs at the touch of the rough cloth moving over his skin. It spreads in widening circles and Dean drops his head further as Cas moves over his shoulders, down his back to his waist. Even here, Cas keeps his hands almost clinical, avoiding any lingering touches. 

“Lean back.” Strong fingers move through his hair and scalp, creating suds in their wake. Dean whimpers, shuddering as sensation floods through a body that forgot how to feel. Cas ignores it, concentrating on his task. The yawning emptiness recedes, pulling back from his fingertips and extremities, leaving tingling warmth in its place. Compared to the nothingness of before, it’s almost indecently indulgent. “Turn around.” 

Dean obeys, tilting his head back as soap and shampoo sluice their way down his back. He flinches at the first touch of cloth on his chest, but then relaxes into it. Castiel carefully avoids any of the spots which are guaranteed to make Dean moan and pant, and focuses instead on the curve of his shoulders and the ladder of his ribs. Dean slumps forward, his forehead resting on Cas’ shoulder. 

“Just a little bit more,” Cas assures him, his hands cradling Dean’s head and holding him upright. “Just for a little while more, all right?” Dean nods, not entirely sure of what he’s agreeing to. He only knows how his hands curl around Cas’ shoulders, not why, not until Cas lowers himself to his knees. Dean’s fingers tighten, using his hold on Cas for support, as Cas moves the washcloth over his thighs and calves. “Lift up,” he says, and Dean obediently raises his foot. Cas swipes the cloth over the sole of his foot and between his toes, before gentle fingers replace his foot on the tub floor. 

Once his task is complete, Cas stands. Dean’s hands fall away from his shoulders, fingers rubbing against his palms. Without Cas to hold onto, he can’t see the point in his hands anymore. “Last time. Turn around.” The last of the soap circles down the drain. Dean watches it swirl and only vaguely recognizes the sound of the shower curtain moving. 

Without Cas at his back, he sways, lost. Abruptly, the shower turns off and he trembles at the loss of heat. He blinks out of his stupor, looking around blindly, only to be met by the sight of Cas holding out a towel. “Come here.” 

Dean craves orders; the easier to understand the better. He followed orders for the first sixteen years of his life and he’d be lying if he said that sometimes he didn’t yearn for the simplicity of the life he left behind. The world drops out from underneath him when the enormity of the night hits him: his father is dead. He’ll never hear John Winchester’s voice again. He’ll never get a chance…

“Hey, it’s all right, I’ve got you.” Cas’ arms wrap around him, toweling off the clinging water droplets in brisk, warming motions. “You’re ok Dean. It’s all right.” 

How could he know that? His life, everything that he’s tried so hard to build, is in shambles. What’s the point in any of it? Nausea grabs him, twists at his innards, and he stumbles forward. Cas holds him, his grip like steel around his biceps and Dean struggles for a moment before he surrenders. 

“I don’t want…” He hates how weak his voice sounds, how pathetic. “I just wanna sleep. Please. I just want to sleep.” If he can sleep, then he can forget all of this, at least for a little while. Until the dreams come.

“Of course Dean. Wait here.” Dean whimpers when Cas steps away, his equilibrium vanished. His stomach churns and the edges of the world start to melt. His limbs turn heavy and frozen and it doesn’t change, not until Cas comes back, dressed in a pair of Dean’s boxers and one of his shirts. He holds out another pair of boxers. Dean takes them and turns the fabric over in his hands, thumbnail running over the tiny stitches. He looks dumbly at Cas. Logistically, he knows what should be done with these, but he can’t make his limbs follow his brain’s urging. 

“All right Dean. Easy now.” Cas drops down to one knee, taking the boxers from Dean as he goes. A warm hand encircles his ankle, urging him to lift his foot. First one, then the other, then Cas stands, working the boxers up his legs and over his hips. He settles the elastic band around Dean’s waist and takes his hand. “Come to bed.” 

Dean follows Cas out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He only balks when he catches sight of his bed, the sheets twisted at the foot. Cas’ hands push him forward and Dean doesn’t have enough strength to resist. He falls forward into his mattress, the memory foam easily conforming to his body. He tenses until he feels the tell-tale dip behind him. 

Later, he might feel ashamed of how easily he rolls over, his arms seeking Cas’ body. He might be embarrassed about how he clutches at Cas, face pressed so hard into Cas’ chest that when he inhales, the fabric of Cas’ shirt makes the journey into his mouth. A damp spot forms, but Dean doesn’t care, because Cas holds him tight, murmuring sweet nonsense words that wrap around his body and drift into the empty places of him. 

“I don’t want...Cas I don’t want to go to sleep,” Dean confesses. He knows, without a doubt, that when he drifts off, the dreams will be waiting for him. He can’t face them. Not now, not ever. 

“I’ll be here,” Cas tells him, and his voice has the same unshakable quality that composes bedrock and concrete. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” 

Dean relaxes into his hold, soft whines of pleasure rasping in the back of his throat as Cas combs his fingers through Dean’s hair and down his neck. He doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to…

\---

This dream always starts the same way: his father stands in the middle of the hotel room, dried blood crusting the lines of his hands like rust. Sam stands on one end of the room, Dean the other. Sam is furthest away from the door and Dean sees his eyes dart towards it every other second as his brain works on exit strategies. 

Sam is twelve and scrawny, but his eyes are alight with intelligence that no pre-teen should possess. John is forty and his eyes gleam with anger that no father should possess. 

Dean feels sick. 

“No, what you’re going to do is you’re going to get in the damn car and do as you’re told.” John Winchester has the kind of voice that assumes obedience is something demanded instead of something earned, the kind of voice that was born to command. Dean’s feet twitch in the need to follow, to do as he’s told. Part of it is a desire to get his father away from Sam and part of it is the sick, twisted need to feel like he’s done something right, to see his father’s pride, if only for a second. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is urgent, pleading. “Dean, don’t.” 

The look John shoots at his youngest son is nothing short of poisonous. “You shut your mouth. Dean, get in the car.” He doesn’t even bother to look at Dean, so assured he is of his unthinking compliance. 

Dean stays put. He’s seen what work his father does when he leaves the hotel rooms late at night and he wants no part of it. He can only think of the disappointment on Ellen’s face, the anger on Bobby’s, the fear on Jo’s. The slow realization on Sam’s face as he starts to add the pieces together. Dean feels sick, like a thousand cockroaches are crawling just underneath his skin. 

John finally realizes that Dean hasn’t moved. “Dean.” The sound of his displeasure is like a whip cracked across his back. Dean flinches from the sound. “I said, get in the car. Now.” 

“No.” The word comes out shattered and cracked, inaudible. Dean flicks his tongue across his dry lips and tries again. This time, the refusal comes out louder--still thin and brittle, but loud enough to make John’s head snap towards him. 

“The hell did you say to me?” He advances and Dean retreats, his newfound bravery fled in the face of his father’s anger. 

Dean shivers but forces his thin shoulders straight. “I’m not going with you. Not tonight, not ever.” 

John takes another few steps forward, until Dean’s back is flat against the wall. “You’ll do as you’re told.” In his dark eyes, Dean sees all the words that he’s heard before-- _Ungrateful. Selfish. Waste of space_. Dean feels those words like blows. 

“I don’t…” Dean’s heart beats a wild rhythm behind his ribs, terror and bravado torturing the muscle beyond all limits of normal human endurance. “I don’t want to do that.” 

John sneers, contempt pouring off of him in waves. “You don’t want to? Well, I’m sorry for not consulting the princess first. I forgot that we only ever have to do what we want when it comes to putting food on this table.” 

Dean’s throat closes with shame and fear as his father looks him up and down. He fears the back of John’s hand, but worse is the casual dismissal in his eyes as he decides that Dean isn’t worthy. 

“Get in the damn car.” John shakes his head, turning away from Dean. “If your mother could see you now, she’d be ashamed of you.” 

The words sink deep into the vulnerable parts of Dean, tearing away little chunks of him. Maybe that’s why he pushes himself off the wall and takes a step forward, squaring his narrow teenaged shoulders as he says, “No, she’d be ashamed of you.” 

This time when John whirls around, there’s hellfire and damnation in his eyes. His arm swings so fast that Dean doesn’t catch the movement until his head snaps to the side. A dull ringing starts in his ears as heat blooms on the side of his face. Seconds later, his head falls to the opposite side. The ringing intensifies. A final blow cracks across his mouth and the bright taste of copper blooms on Dean’s tongue. 

Dean staggers back, hands groping for the wall. His lungs act like they’ve forgotten how to work and he gasps helplessly, unable to move as a thin cry of rage erupts from Sam’s chest. Dean’s frozen, paralyzed, as his little brother launches himself at John, pulling with all his weight at his father’s arm. 

“Don’t you dare, you bastard!” Sam shouts, amiable face twisted in a snarl. His thin fingers can’t even close around John’s wrist but he puts all hundred and ten pounds behind it and manages to tug John off balance. 

It happens in slow motion, John’s free hand curling into a fist and swinging in a graceful arc. Dean watches, horrified, his body shivering out of his control. He tries to choke out a warning, but the cry of _Sammy_ dies on his lips. He can only watch as his father buries his fist into Sam’s unprotected stomach. 

An awful choked sound erupts from Sam’s throat, pain and rage twisted into something that Dean doesn’t recognize as his brother. Still, Sam clings to John’s arm with the tenacity of a terrier, never loosening his grip. It’s only when John’s fist comes down on Sam’s face with a sickening crunch that Sam releases his hold. His little brother, Sammy, crumples to the ground with a dull thump and Dean can finally move. 

He’s hysterical, calling Sam’s name, rolling him over, hands flying over his face. Sam is halfway lucid, blinking dazedly at Dean as Dean dabs at the blood leaking out of his nose. “You’re all right, you’re all right, Sam, Sam, please, tell me you’re ok…” 

He doesn’t notice the door banging against its hinges, or the roar of the Impala as his father leaves. It’s only after Sam is able to sit up and Dean’s cleaned his face up that he notices that he and Sam are alone. 

The knowledge of what he has to do sinks in Dean’s stomach like a stone. “Get your stuff Sam,” he orders, shoving dirty clothes into his duffel bag. Sam blinks at him, eyes widening in realization, before he hurries to obey. 

Ten minutes later he and Sam leave the hotel room, having raided the secret stash of cash that John hides in the sole of his spare pair of boots. Twenty minutes later, Dean sits behind the wheel of a hot-wired car, roaring down the highway with only one destination in mind: Lawrence, Kansas, Singer’s Salvage Yard. 

His neck aches with the urge to look back, but he never does. 

\---

Caught in between reality and dream, Dean thrashes, fists flying as he wrenches away from the hands trying to restrain him. Protect Sammy, that’s what he needs to do, that’s his whole purpose in life. Protect Sammy, get him away, keep him safe…

“Dean! Dean!” 

Reality seeps in around the edges of his vision and Dean pauses. He recognizes the pictures on the nightstand, the yellowing paint in the corners of the room. His sheets twist around his body and the hands trying to push him down… “Cas?” he croaks. He sags back into the pillows and Cas releases his death-grip. “Fuck,” Dean groans. 

“You were yelling,” Cas tells him, after a few long seconds pass. “You were calling for Sam.” 

Dean sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. “Yeah. Well.” He buries his face in his hands, breathing deep. A cool glass nudges against his upper arm and Dean accepts it without thinking. 

“Should I call him?” 

Panic seizes Dean. He can’t let Sam see him, not like this. “Don’t you dare,” he snaps, only vaguely acknowledging Cas’ sharp inhalation. “I can’t,” he tries after a moment. “He doesn’t need to be the one trying to take care of me. That’s not how this works.” 

“You’re not a machine,” Cas tells him. With subtle movements, he urges Dean to lay back down. “You’re allowed to have people care for you.” Long fingers card through his hair and stroke over his shoulders. “You’re allowed this.” 

Dean bites back the automatic retorts and lets himself sink into Cas’ touch. Here, pillowed against Cas, he could almost let himself believe the words. He wants to believe, more than anything, wants to believe that maybe, he’s worthy of someone else’s love. 

“Cas, I don’t think my dad was a good person.” 

The words taste sour in his mouth and sound worse hanging in the air. He’s never said them aloud before because there was no need. Sam already knew everything and no one else ever got close enough for it to matter. But Cas...It’s important to Dean, that Cas knows. He’s hidden this away for so long, from everyone, but here, hidden away from the world, he thinks that it deserves to be said. 

“He used to do these jobs, right? He would leave without telling us where he was going and when he came back he’d be...There would be bruises, or his knuckles would be split, or there would be…” Dean’s laugh sounds more like a groan. “He told us that it was rust underneath his nails and we believed it. How stupid do you have to be?” 

Cas’ fingers twitch, but he says nothing. For that, Dean’s grateful. It’s easier to speak when he doesn’t have to go through the efforts of responding to another person. 

“Then, when I turned sixteen, he decided for whatever reason, that it was time I started helping him. I thought it was going to be fine, you know? He’d already taken him on several of his other jobs--handyman stuff, or working in whatever garage would hire him under the table. I thought that it was going to be like that.” 

Dean swallows, his body convulsing reflexively. “Instead, he takes me to this old warehouse and I’m in the car thinking ‘ _What the fuck_ ’, right? I couldn’t understand why we came there of all places. And then, when we get in...There’s a guy tied to a chair. I thought that only happened in movies.” 

Dean swallows. He tries to breathe in Cas’ scent, but all he can smell are remnants of his own laundry detergent. “He owed money. He owed money and my dad was working as a goon to get it out of him.” Dean’s finger clutch at Cas’ shirt. “My dad. All that time, I’d thought he was so brave, so selfless. He was still trying to figure out who killed Mom. But he...fuck Cas, the guy was crying. He had snot running down his face and my dad was hitting him and he kept on…” Dean’s voice catches and the next words taste like bile as he speaks, “And then he wanted me to go, told me that’s how a real man worked.” 

From far away, he can feel Cas press kisses into his hair, against his temple, on his forehead. He hears the soft whisper of his name, pressed into his skin like a blessing, but part of him is still in that warehouse, with his father behind him and a bleeding stranger in front of him and his fingers curling into a fist. Part of him never left that warehouse.

Cas doesn’t ask him what he did there and Dean loves him all the more for his mercy. 

“It wasn’t long after that that Sam and I left.” Maybe one day he’ll tell Cas everything, about the blood on Sam’s face, about the taste of blood in his mouth, about the cold, dead look in John’s eyes. Maybe one day. “I idolized him Cas. For sixteen years, I wanted to _be_ him. Part of me still does--I wear the same clothes, drive the same car, I even listen to the same music. And I hate myself for it, for even wanting to be like him.” 

Cas’ arms pull him in closer. “Maybe part of you is like him,” and that is so not what Dean wanted to hear, “because there were good parts of him as well. Your mother married him and loved him, and there was a reason for it. But if you’re like him, then it’s only the best parts, the worthiest parts.” Cas kisses his hairline and murmurs the last words there, like he’s afraid of what he’s saying. “Dean, you’re one of the kindest, bravest, best souls that I’ve ever seen. Your father’s rage, his neglect? None of that is in you. You’re not capable of it.” 

Dean surges forward. Cas’ sentence trails off, lost in the slick slide of tongue and lips. Cas moans into Dean’s mouth, hands pulling him closer. Dean kisses Cas hard enough to forget, hard enough to leave behind his sixteen year old self. He’d kiss Castiel forever if he could, except that he pulls away. 

“Dean,” he pants, hair and eyes wild in the dim lamplight. “Dean, we can’t. You’re not...this isn’t a good time. You’re hurting and not thinking clearly…”

“Shut up,” Dean orders, fisting his hand in the loose fabric of Cas’ shirt. “I need this. I need you.” He’s not exaggerating--his skin crawls with need, with the overwhelming urge to press against Cas, prove that he’s alive, prove that he’s more than what his father said he could be. He kisses Castiel’s slack mouth until Cas kisses him back. “Need you Cas, want you so bad.” 

Cas groans, wrecked, into his mouth and Dean knows that he’s got him. Hands pull at the hem of his shirt and push at the waistband of his pants. Dean scrambles to remove them, his limbs tangling in the fabric until he wrestles his way free. Once he’s bare, he turns his attention to Cas until their overheated skin slides together. 

“Dean, are you sure?” Cas asks. Dean can feel, from the hands he runs over Cas’ flanks, how hard he’s trying to hold back, his hips making tiny, aborted thrusts. “Please Dean, please, you have to be sure.”

Dean reaches up and fists a hand in Cas’ hair, hard enough to pull his head back to bare his throat. “If you ask me that one more time,” he growls. He sucks a bruising kiss right above the hollow of Cas’ throat, feeling the vibrations of Cas’ whine against his mouth. 

“All right, all right,” Cas says, pulling against Dean’s hold. “I believe you.” Dean’s hand releases its hold on him and Cas’ hands move over his sides in long, greedy strokes. “But we’re doing this my way.” 

Dean doesn’t argue with that, he can’t, not when Cas nips a line across his collarbone and shoulder. With soft touches, Cas urges him onto his stomach. Dean sighs as he stretches, hips rutting into the mattress. Cas moves to straddle his hips and Dean arches up, grinning at Cas’ low noise of pleasure. 

Lurking in the back of his mind are all thoughts of responsibility and family, but Dean pushes them away, using the hot, heavy weight of Cas against his back as a buffer. It’s easy to forget everything with Cas’ teeth and tongue laying out a path along the nape of his neck and his shoulders. Dean groans as Cas’ hands stroke up and down his sides. Each touch ignites a fire underneath his skin and Dean rolls his hips down, seeking more friction against his hardening cock. 

He whines when Cas’ hands seize his hips, stopping his motions. “Easy,” Cas urges, his voice dark as thirty year old malt liquor. “Let me take care of it.” 

Dean relaxes, panting softly into the curve of his elbow as Cas shifts. He lays hot, open-mouthed kisses, seemingly at random, along the expanse of his back, down to the curve of his waist and the small of his back. Dean whimpers when Cas’ nips at the swell of his ass, soothing the bite with a long, lingering kiss. “Fuck,” he whines, fighting the urge to thrust up into Cas’ mouth or down into the mattress. 

By now they’re both familiar with the contents of each other’s bedside tables. Cas grabs the lube and a condom. Dean follows his motions with half-lidded eyes. He cranes his head over his shoulder, accepting an awkward kiss as he feels the first press of Cas’ fingers. 

Sometimes Dean thinks that Cas likes this more than the actual fucking, the slow slide of his fingers in and out of his body. Most everyone he’s been with, and himself if he’s being honest, treat prep as a necessary evil--the roadblock getting in the way of the main event. Cas treats it like a form of a worship, long fingers twisting and rubbing. Dean cries out as Cas finds his prostate, fingertips rubbing until Dean can’t help but push into the mattress. 

“Cas, _please_ ,” he chokes out, reaching back for any part of Cas that he can touch. His fingers brush Cas’ arm, before Cas leans forehead, nose dragging through the fine sheen of sweat covering Dean’s shoulders. 

A second, and then a third finger press inside him and Dean keens with the burn of it all. Cas bites down gently on the meat of Dean’s shoulder, teeth leaving a faint impression in his skin. “Can I?” he asks, his clean hand running up Dean’s neck and then over his hair. 

“Yeah, fuck, please,” Dean whines, unable to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. Cas smothers his moan in Dean’s skin before he pulls back. Dean wants to roll over and see Cas’ face, watch his long fingers stroke over his flesh but Cas’ hand acts as an anchor on the back of his neck, keeping him still. 

Cas’ thighs rest on either side of Dean’s hips, chest pressed against his back. The position leaves no room for Dean to move, hardly room for him to breathe as Cas pushes in. Dean’s breath rushes out in the long, slow slide, fingers grabbing the sheets underneath him. Cas doesn’t stop until he’s balls deep, leaving them both a shaking mess. 

When he does start to move, it’s with short rolls of his hips that leave Dean no option of movement. All he can do is just _take it_ , take everything that Cas gives him. He does and he’s dying with it, the stimulation so good and not near enough, cock rubbing against the sheets and Cas managing to angle himself to scrape against Dean’s prostate with every grind but it’s not near enough. 

“Cas, I need more,” Dean finally groans, turning his head to look over his shoulder. Cas’ eyes meet his, electric blue almost swallowed by his pupils. “C’mon Cas, please, please--” His voice chokes off as Cas snaps his hips, harder than before, before returning to the same maddening grinds. 

“Told you we were going to do this my way.” Cas moves his arms to curl underneath Dean’s, hands grabbing onto Dean’s shoulders for leverage. Cas’ knees shift on the mattress and now he’s thrusting with intent, each snap of his hips pushing the breath out of Dean. 

It’s a punishing pace, and Dean wants to meet it, but he can’t. He’s kept pinned by Cas and he loves it, loves every second of it. His mouth hangs open, and a mindless string of praise and cries falls out. Cas’ hair brushes against his shoulders, his breath harsh and hot against Dean’s skin. 

He’s close, he’s so _damn_ close, but he needs just a little more, something to push him over the edge. “Cas,” he grunts, pushing back as much he can. “Cas, _please_ , I wanna…” 

Cas moves faster, knees sliding across the sheets. Dean’s eyes roll and he cries out in frustration, caught on the precipice between too much and not enough, and it’s enough to drive him crazy, every nerve ending in his body snapping with need, his brain shorting out, he’s on fire, and Cas is so perfect above him and all he can do is just take it--

“Come for me Dean,” Cas says, his voice scraped and raw, and his teeth sink into Dean’s shoulder and that is--

Dean comes in a white-hot blur, mouth open in a soundless cry, brain shorting out. He’s aware of Cas’ low curse, the feel of his hips snapping once, twice, before Cas stills above him, coming with a harsh cry. He rides it out, hips grinding down until Dean whimpers with over-stimulation. 

Dean drifts back into his body, brought back with soft, soothing touches to his back. Cas whispers above him. The words are unintelligible, but his tone is reverent, awed. He rests against the mattress, body heavy post-orgasm, and takes a moment to just breathe. 

In a moment, he’ll have to deal with the lingering events of the night. He’ll have to face reality: he’s got a funeral to plan, not to mention years worth of baggage to unpack. In a moment, he’ll have to leave Cas and the sanctuary of the bed. In a moment, Atlas picks his burden back up again. 

But for now, he can rest. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	16. i always make such expensive mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral and John Winchester's legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the angst-train is a'coming in the station! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Dean wakes alone. 

Half-awake, he gropes through the folds of sheets, only to find them empty and cold. Confused, he sits up and looks around the room, like he might find Cas lurking behind the closet door. A swift glance tells him that his room is empty and further listening tells him that his apartment is the same. 

Dean swallows and clenches his fist in the sheets. He hadn’t been expecting breakfast in bed, but it still...A quick glance at his alarm clock tells him that it’s past 9 o’clock and adrenaline kicks into his body. Why hasn’t his phone--Why didn’t his alarm--?

There’s a note on his bedside table. Dean recognizes the all-caps handwriting and leans over to grab it. 

_Dean-_  
I already called in and told Becky that you had a death in the family. They won’t be expecting you at the school for the rest of the week. I turned your alarm off so you could get some sleep.   
I’ll call you during planning.   
-C 

Dean flops back onto his pillows and closes his eyes. Beside him, his phone flashes with a notification of a missed call. Sam, he sees, and why wouldn’t it be? He called his brother in the middle of the night and told him that their father was dead. If their positions were switched, then Dean would have been calling every ten minutes. He can almost admire Sam's restraint. 

He punches in Sam’s information and listens to the phone ring. After a few moments, it picks up. “Dean?” Jess’ voice, soft and soothing, comes through the line. "How are you doing?”

“Well as can be expected,” Dean answers. Much as he loves Jess, he really, really, really doesn't want to get into his feelings at the moment. “I need to...is Sam there?” 

“He’s in the shower. Should be done any minute. We can be over at yours in about thirty minutes if you want so that we...we can decide what to do.” Jess’ voice loses some of her relentless optimism and Dean wants nothing more than to scoop her up and bundle her far away. 

“Yeah I need…” Dean shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that Jess can’t see him. “I don’t know how to do any of this. I’ve never had to…”

“Have you called Bobby and Ellen yet?” Jess asks. 

“Hell.” Dean’s heart sinks at the thought. 

“I only asked because maybe they’d be able to help. I don’t...I don’t know what to do either,” she confesses. 

“Look, we’ll get together and figure this out.” His shoulders ache with responsibility but it's his job. _Take care of Sammy_ translates into _Take care of everything_ and Jess falls underneath that category. “It’s all going to work out.” 

He and Jess say some ultimately meaningless platitudes towards each other and Dean hangs up the phone. He can’t help but think, as he puts his phone down, that he wants something like what Sam has. Someone to answer the phone while he’s in the shower, a partner to stand by his side. 

His eyes flick to Cas’ note. His chest aches with potential. 

But potential is ultimately useless if there’s no will to act behind it. . Dean rolls his shoulders and ignores the lingering soreness of his muscles as he goes to get another shower. 

\---

Approximately forty minutes later, his door opens. “Just come on in why don’t you,” Dean mutters, his back to the door. He turns around, expecting to see his giant of a brother clogging up his kitchen, which is why the sight of Cas surprises him into immobility. He’s paler than when Dean last saw him but otherwise he looks much the same as he did about four hours ago. 

“Playing hooky?’ is the first thing Dean can think of to ask. 

Cas shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, but there’s something lurking in his eyes, something about the way that his arms curve carefully around his waist, that speaks of vulnerability. “Did you know that if you vomit during the school day, you're automatically sent home?” 

“I was aware,” Dean says, trying to connect the puzzle pieces. “So what? You had a bad granola bar this morning?”

That same blend of nonchalance and anxiety appears in Cas’ shrug as he says, “Did you know that some people can make themselves vomit without any external stimulus?” 

The puzzle pieces finally connect, and all Dean can do is laugh softly to himself for a moment. “You,” he says, shaking his head, “you threw up in school? On purpose?” 

“During first block,” Cas confirms. “I made sure that plenty of people saw me.” 

“And why,” Dean asks, stepping close to Cas, “would someone discover that they had the talent of vomiting on command?”

“Did I not mention that college was a very interesting time?” Cas’ shoulders loosen as Dean’s hand curves around his waist. After that, it’s a collapse in stages, Dean folding into Castiel, until his arms wrap around Cas’ waist and his forehead rests on Cas’ broad shoulder. “I just...I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” Cas confesses, his fingers pressing in on the tight muscles of Dean’s shoulders. "I couldn't get you out of my mind." 

Sam and Jess arrive a few minutes later to find Dean and Cas in the kitchen. If Sam’s surprised by Cas’ presence, he hides it well. Dean meets Sam’s eyes, knowing that there’s no explaining this away, no way to say that Cas is just a friend. Benny is a friend. Charlie is a friend. Neither one of them are in Dean’s kitchen, debating over what to do with his father’s body. 

It takes the four of them the rest of the afternoon to plan the arrangements. None of them suggest the obvious: washing their hands of the whole affair, resigning John Winchester to a pauper’s burial and an anonymous grave. It would certainly be simpler for all of them, but part of Dean rebels at the thought of his father resting in a random plot of earth. The man spent twenty four years of his life trying to find whatever killed his wife. The least Dean can do is let him rest beside her. 

After the phone calls are placed, and the dates set, Sam orders a pizza. Slowly, the tension from the day bleeds away until it’s just the four of them sharing drinks and food. Jess recounts a story from hers and Sam’s Stanford days and Cas laughs, dimples on his cheeks pronounced as he smiles at her. Dean watches them interact, the three people that he loves most in the world. He wants to take this feeling in his chest, bottle it up, and save it for rainy days. 

“So how are ballet lessons going?” Dean asks around a mouthful of his Meat Lover’s pizza. Sam sends a bitchy look his way, but unlike Dean, he’s not willing to talk around a full mouth to defend himself, so Dean gets to explain to Cas, “TwinkleToes here was worried that he wouldn’t look good during their 'first dance', so he and Jess have been spending their evenings learning how to pirouette.” 

Sam finally swallows, already offended, as he looks plaintively at Cas. “It’s ballroom dancing, and forgive me if I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone--”

Cas takes a delicate bite and rubs at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb as he glances towards the ceiling, clearly deep in thought. “Well, that makes sense. Of course, you’ll want to move past the basic ballroom and into the Viennese waltz if you want to look like more than weekend dabblers. And no one’s ever gone wrong with a little foxtrot.”

Three pairs of eyes stare at him. Cas blinks back, politely befuddled. Jess finally breaks the ice. “Have you been holding out on us Cas?”

“Closet Dancing with the Stars fan?” Dean guesses. 

Cas’ eyes flick between them. “No,” he says, in the tone which suggests that everyone around him is just deeply stupid, “Michael held a number of charity balls. We were all expected to acquit ourselves on the floor.” 

If Cas was hoping to return them to normal, then his gambit failed. A smile that bodes no one any good slowly dawns on Jess' face. 

“All right hotshot,” she says, pushing her chair away from the table. She grabs Cas’ wrists and tugs. “Show me what you’ve got.” 

Cas tilts his head in confusion and looks at Dean, who bravely holds up his hands and shakes his head. “All you.” Maybe it’s not the nicest thing to do, but he can’t deny that he’s a little intrigued. He adds this up in the little drawer he keeps in the back of his mind, of What Cas Is. So far he’s got doctor, asshole, know-it-all, stoner, and now ballroom dancer. 

“We’ve been taking lessons for weeks now and Sam, he tries, he really does, but the poor thing struggles--”

“Giant feet,” Dean interrupts, dodging Sam’s swift kick at his shins. “It’s hard for Sasquatch to keep a beat.” 

Jess finds something jazzy on her phone and holds out her hand. After a moment’s thought, Cas takes it and moves into position, one hand resting lightly on her back. He leans in close and whispers into her ear, and on an unspoken signal, they’re off. 

Dean knows jack about dancing, but he knows enough about humans to know that Cas and Jess look good. Poor Sam, but his over-sized body doesn’t allow for the kind of minute grace that dancing requires. Dean’s seen his brother’s piss-poor attempts at dancing, and no brotherly loyalty will make him deny that Cas puts Sam to shame. Cas’ sock-clad feet easily glide across the kitchen linoleum and Jess follows, her blonde hair swishing with every turn. The sheer wattage of her wide smile is matched only by Cas’ grin. 

Dean makes the mistake of looking over at Sam. He’s terrified that he has the same sappy smile plastered over his face that Sam does, so he tries to wipe his expression clean when Sam glances across the table at him. “Don’t look at me; I'm not dancing with you,” he says, rubbing away the laugh lines at the corner of his lips in a futile attempt to hide his feelings. “I have to be able to move around at work tomorrow. Can’t have you squashing my feet with your clown shoes.”

It’s impossible for him to keep his eyes off of Cas and Jess for long. They look like something out of a movie, as they glide through his kitchen, and, like a moth to the light, Dean is caught in their glow. Cas spins Jess, and her clear laugh echoes through the kitchen. Dean’s skin hurts. It’s too small to contain everything that he is, everything that he feels. How do people live their lives, being in love? How do they get anything done? How can they waste their time with jobs and hobbies while they could be basking in the presence of their beloved? 

The song ends and so does the dance. Cas’ hand rests on Jess’ back, supporting her as he bends her over in a low dip. She comes up smiling, arm thrown around Cas’ shoulders in an easy embrace. “That’s it,” she announces as she returns to the table and settles under Sam’s arm, “I’m leaving you. Cas is my new husband now.” 

“Downsizing?” Dean grins at her. He bumps Cas’ shoulder. “I’ll warn you, he’s a bit of an asshole.” His peripheral vision provides him with an exquisite view of Castiel rolling his eyes. 

“At least I won’t have to use the wide-angle lens in the wedding photos.” Jess stretches on her tiptoes to press a smacking kiss against Sam’s cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just get him to stand in for you during the first dance.”

Dean flicks an errant strand of Cas' fringe as he grins at him. “You’ve got a month to grow your hair out. Put you on some stilts, no one could tell the difference between the two of you.” Cas rolls his eyes like he’s painting the ceiling with his irises, but a faint smile darts across his face. 

The rest of the night passes in easy company. Dean and Cas never touch beyond the odd brush of knuckles, but throughout the night, Cas’ presence next to him is a tangible thing. He stays after Sam and Jess leave, stays until Dean is in his t-shirt and boxers, stretched out on his mattress. 

“Are you going to be all right?” he asks. The backs of his knuckles run absently up and down Dean’s arm. Dean doesn’t know if Cas is even aware of the motion. 

“I think I will be," Dean says, after a long moment's thought. He almost thinks that the words might be true. “Today was the hard part. Tomorrow’s just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.” Dean rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The words he wants to say stick in his throat so he grabs the closest thing to them he can find. 

“I don’t...It means a lot, you being here today. I just wanted to say--” _I love you. Stay with me. No one’s ever done for me what you’ve done, no one except Sam, but you make it to where I don’t have to be strong anymore_ … Dean clears his throat. “Thanks man.” 

He rolls his head over to the side to chance a look at Cas. Cas, who looks surprisingly disappointed for all of a second before his expression smooths. Then he just looks like Cas: eternally grumpy, usually perplexed, and always with that layer of something more. 

“Of course Dean,” Cas answers, and then Dean might understand that flash of disappointment, because if Cas didn’t get everything that he was looking for from Dean, then Dean sure as hell didn’t get everything that he was looking for from Cas. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Sam doesn’t mention it, at least not at first. 

In fact, the only time that he brings up Cas is while they’re waiting for the director of the graveyard to come see them. He just looks over at Dean, a tiny, smug, pleased smile on his face. “So,” he says, in his patented, obnoxious little brother voice, “you and Cas, huh?” 

Dean tucks his chin into the collar of his shirt and tries for his best glower. It’s lacking. Between the lingering grief and omnipresent anxiety, he can’t muster up the normal level of vitriol. All he can come up with is a weak “Shut up.” 

He can’t tell Sam that it’s not like that, especially when he can’t explain what, exactly, it is like between him and Cas. He and Cas aren’t dating, but Cas made himself vomit just so he could spend the day with Dean. He and Cas aren’t official, but they spend every weekend together. Dean makes them breakfast for Christ’s sake. He and Cas aren’t in a relationship, but they’re fucking, and cuddling, and pillow-talking, exactly like they’re in a relationship. It’s enough to spin Dean’s head and make him question up from down. He doesn’t want to try explaining it to Sam, doesn’t want to see the confusion, or worse, the pity, on his brother’s face when Dean tells him the absolute mess he’s made of his personal life. 

Sam’s smile widens, cementing Dean’s resolve. He can't do anything to destroy that expression, not right now. “No, I think it’s cute. Especially the part where six months ago, you would tell anyone who stood still long enough that you couldn’t stand him. Huge tip-off by the way, I think that there might have been a bet going on about how long it was going to take you to realize that you were way too obsessed with him--”

“Would you shut up already?” Dean growls. “Really don’t want to be talking about this with the dead person dude in the next room.” 

Sam stops speaking but the shit-eating grin remains. “I just think that it’s a good thing, is all. I think that he’s good for you.” Sam lets it lie after that, which isn’t as much of a mercy as it would first appear. The dark places in Dean’s brain thrive on silence. 

He’s thought about it before, whether or not he and Cas are good for each other. He knows his truth: Cas is so, so good for him, with his smile and his laugh, and his elegant fingers that reach so easily into Dean, scoop out the vulnerable parts, and hold them so gently up to the light. 

He doesn’t know if he’s good for Cas. Past experiences would tend to say no. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

John Winchester’s ashes go into the ground on a drizzly, grey Saturday morning. At the graveside service, Dean stands in his raincoat, mist clinging to his eyelashes and listens to the anonymous minister rattle on about Heaven, the Life Eternal and about John going to his final resting place. He doesn’t believe, he can’t believe, but the words bring Sam comfort, so he shelves his own beliefs and listens to a stranger wax philosophical about his father. 

Dean knew the man for twenty-eight years. What does this man, this preacher, think that he could discover? 

After the funeral, Dean walks through the dwindling group of mourners in a daze. Bobby and Ellen stand at the edge of the cemetery, gently ushering the pitiful number of mourners away. Dean watches, numb to the rain falling on his forehead, numb to the creeping grief winding its way through him. He still can’t wrap his head around the idea that his father is gone. He half-expects his phone to ring once more, flashing the three damning letters across the screen. He thumbs over the edge of it in his pocket, resisting the impulse to pull it out and check. 

Sam moves through the handful of people like a puppet with frayed strings. He seems diminished, smaller even than when he was fourteen and little more than gangly limbs and long hair. Watching him, Dean feels a faint spark of rage light in the midst of the yawning emptiness inside him. Sam fought constantly with Dad, hated the idea of living with him. He hadn’t even talked to Dad in the last four years. How dare he act like he lost something? 

Then the guilt kicks in, a double-barrel of awfulness right in the soft parts of his gut. He looks at Sam, the way that he forces a thankful smile that looks like a rictus grin, and something in him shrivels. He thinks of his father, calling him, and the way that he threw his phone across the room. How he laughed afterward, the joy pulsing through his veins as he forsook some of the last family he had left. 

The handful of mourners file away, their forms blurry in the sullen rain. Dean stands with Sam and Jess, foregoing the comfort of the umbrella Jess tries to put over his head. Dean stares at his mother’s headstone, something thick and hot trying to claw out of his throat. The bare patch of earth looks too small for something as large as his father. It feels obscene, like watching pornography in church. 

“Dean.” From the sharp tone of Sam’s voice, Dean can tell it’s not the first time Sam’s tried to get his attention. “Come on, let’s go home.” 

Dean swallows around the hard, sour lump working its way up past his gorge. “Yeah,” he says, not trusting himself to say anything else. 

Even Baby doesn’t bring him the comfort that she usually does. All he can think of is his father’s hands on the steering wheel, the afternoons spent underneath her hood as John taught him how to fix her when she was hurting. He’d seemed freer in those times, the memories loosening their hold on him. He’d almost remembered how to be a father instead of a hunter. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be ok?” Sam’s face has the lemon-sucking pinch of concern that Dean loathes. From the backseat, Jess reaches forward and squeezes his shoulder before she wisely makes her escape into the house, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the car. The silence between them quickly becomes an oppressive presence all its own. Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he stares straight ahead at Sam’s driveway. “Maybe you should call Cas.” 

“I’m fine Sam,” Dean snaps. His hands wrap around the wheel so tightly that his knuckles creak. “Look, it’s been a long day and I just want to go home.” 

Sam’s lips purse. Dean very carefully keeps his eyes focused straight ahead, but he can tell that his brother is almost vibrating with the need to say something. Thankfully, common sense wins out, and Sam deflates. “Call us if you need anything.” 

Dean grunts out an answer. He doesn’t dare to blink until the passenger door slams, and then he’s peeling out of the driveway, turning the wheel like he’s wringing necks. He already knows that he’s not going to call Sam and he’s sure as hell not going to call Cas. 

He can’t erase the memory of that afternoon, how easily he dismissed the ringing of the phone, the need of his father, how simple it seemed to lose himself in the easy curve of Cas’ lips, the heady scent and taste of the smoke. How _good_ it had felt to throw away his rightful responsibility, the glee as he’d grabbed for Cas. 

He doesn’t deserve that kind of happiness. 

So he drives back to a house that gapes with emptiness and eats lukewarm, leftover pizza as he curls up on the couch. Dean drags a blanket over himself, trying to coccoon himself in any semblance of comfort. If Sam were here, then he’d say that Dean was being melodramatic, but he can’t stop. He can’t reach for the phone to grab even the smallest solace. 

Just to stop temptation, he turns his phone off before he wanders into the kitchen. There’s at least half a handle of whiskey in the kitchen that’s calling his name. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Sunday morning is not kind to him. 

Dean wakes up sprawled over his couch, arms and legs twisted in awkward angles that might have been acceptable five years ago, but now leave him hissing in pain as he sits up. His head throbs in warning and his stomach lurches. He scrambles for the bathroom, skinning his knee on the carpet as he stumbles in his haste. He barely makes it to the toilet before last night’s meager supper splashes against the toilet water. 

Dean waits for a moment, his eyes drawn to the gruesome mess in the bowl. The scent of bile turns his stomach. When he’s sure that nothing else is on its way up, he flushes the toilet. He twists his neck, spine creaking in protest, as he drinks tepid tapwater straight from the spout. It’s awful, but it does help to wash the sour taste out of his mouth. 

His body still feels weak as he wanders into the kitchen. He winces at the clock. 8:48 and he’s up and mobile. Most Sunday mornings find him still asleep until ten, when he begrudgingly slides from the sheets and makes a brunch full of carbs and grease to make up from the indignity of awakening. Lately, the harsh reality of morning has been softened on Sunday mornings, because lately he’s been able to wake up to the comfort of a warm body pressed against his. Last night was the first Saturday night that he’s spent alone in months. Dean’s skin yearns for the press of skin, like a junkie craving a fix. 

Dean grits his teeth and chokes down a burnt piece of toast, and tries to ignore it. 

He moves on auto-pilot the rest of the day. His headache occupies most of his time and he loses hours in fitful naps on the couch. He should be going over his plans for tomorrow, but the thought is enough to turn his stomach. More than once he glances at his phone. His fingers itch with the urge to call Sam, Charlie, or Benny, but he keeps it to himself. He knows that Bobby and Ellen have probably decimated his voicemail and he suspects that it’s only a matter of time before Jo kicks down his door. 

He wants Cas. He wants to be able to bury his face in the curve of Cas’ neck, the place that seems to fit his skull so perfectly. He wants to press up close to him, rest his hand over the steady beat of Cas’ heart. He wants to close his eyes and remove all his tethers to the world, save that one link. 

But then he’ll think of his father, alone in some flea-trap motel, calling Dean and getting nothing but silence. His father, relying on Dean, Dean who let him down yet again. 

The corners of his townhouse seem like unpredictable, unfriendly things. He was never supposed to have this. He ran away from his father, from his obligation. He lied and cheated his way into a life that he was never supposed to have. 

Deep down, Dean knows that he never really left that warehouse, not in the ways that matter. 

He can’t save his father. He can’t wind back the clock and make the decision that would save his life. But he can at least avoid spitting on his father’s memory. 

So he keeps his phone off until late Sunday night, when he goes to set his alarm. Predictably, a flurry of texts, missed calls, and voicemails flash on the screen, tripping over themselves for his attention. 

_**Charlie: dude would you call someone no one’s heard from you and they’re worried that you went to oz or something** _

_**Jess: just wanted to check and see how you were doing. dinner tonight? you can bring cas** _

_**Sam: Dean, please stop ignoring us. We’re not asking that you talk to us but just let us know that you’re all right.** _

_**Ellen: boy if you don’t get your head out of your ass and answer i’m minded to come over and kick your ass myself** _

_**Cas: Dean do you want me to come over?** _

And on and on the messages roll. There’s a creatively phrased threat from Jo that details several, anatomically impossible things that she’ll do to him if he continues to ignore them, along with three voicemails from Sam, each more terse than the last. Bobby even deigns to text him, which tells Dean that matters must have reached Defcon 4 in the Singer household. 

Worse than Sam’s messages or Jo’s vitriol is Cas’ delicately voiced confusion and hurt. 

_**Dean, you never answered me. Is everything all right?** _

_**Dean, Sam called me. He’s worried about you. Please call him back.** _

_**Please don’t ignore us.** _

_**Just let me know that you’re ok.** _

The lump in Dean’s throat goes down like a fist with razors attached to the knuckles. Everyone’s hitting him where it hurts: the guilt, the worry, the obvious care. He can’t tell these people that he doesn’t deserve it. The thought of the look on Ellen’s face if he tells her that he doesn’t deserve her compassion or her concern is enough to make his testicles want to crawl up inside his body and make a new home there. 

But he can’t. He can’t pick up the phone and accept what they’re offering to him. 

Dean sets the alarm on his phone and flees to the cold comfort of his bed. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean moves like a wraith through the building Monday morning, determined to escape any and all who would either attempt to comfort or question him. Escaping Charlie poses little problem. Her office is on the other side of the building and as much as she cares, it’s not like her to begin an expedition at eight in the morning. Benny is a little more difficult, but after three years of working together, Dean knows his routine well enough to slide past his suite of rooms. Ellen proves trickier. She actually manages to make determined eye contact with Dean, just before the morning bell rings. The look in her eyes promises swift and painful retribution and Dean decides to not spend any time in his room if he can help it. 

During lunch, Dean slinks to the teacher’s cafeteria, simply for the reason that he knows no one will be there. It’s a miserable place full of the smell of day old, re-heated food, and the stains along the table and microwave are enough to turn even his stomach, but the solitude more than makes up for all the room’s faults. 

Not that deep down, Dean knows that he’s being childish. He’s going to have to see his family sooner or later and the law of large numbers says that it’s going to be sooner. When he sees them, he’s going to have to explain his behavior which means that he’s going to end up getting hit at least three times, more if Benny and Bobby are in a mood. Dean’s been hit by Benny before and he doesn’t want to repeat the experience, so shouldn’t he just go to his room and explain himself now? Get out all the poison and regret like ripping off a band-aid?

If he were to get on the phone right now and call Sam, he knows that Sam would put aside everything and listen. There’s no guarantee that Sam wouldn’t call him a fucking dumbass for his behavior, but he would at least listen. 

He could go to Cas and apologize. He’s not as sure on Castiel’s view on forgiveness as he is Sam’s, but he thinks that Cas wouldn’t even bat an eye. He might give Dean the steely-eyed look for a long minute, make him sweat a little, but Dean’s pretty sure that there’s no version of this story that doesn’t end with his face buried in Cas’ chest and Cas’ arms around him, low voice murmuring sympathetic nothings into his hair. 

The problem is that Dean can’t bring himself to really want that. Not when dozens of voices chant in his head _badsonbadsonbadsonbadson_ like a Greek chorus. 

He should call Dr. Moseley. He hasn’t needed to talk to her in a few years, not since college, but it’s too noisy in his head right now. He has her number programmed into his phone; it wouldn’t be anything to punch it in and set up an appointment. He’s a longtime patient, no doubt she’d have him in to see her before the end of the week. His brain knows that it’s the right move to make. He should see her and, in the safety of her office that smells like apple pie and sage, lance this festering boil. 

He doesn’t call. 

Instead, he spends his planning period skulking around the school, finally ending up in the copy room. He sets his laptop up at the table there, idly flipping through websites as he figures out what he’s going to do the rest of the week. Only a few teachers wander in, thankfully none of whom really care about him. They mutter something nice like “sorry for your loss” and then they awkwardly turn back to the copiers, very obviously willing the papers to come out faster. 

It’s sweet, what they’re doing, but goddamn does Dean wish that they would stop. Every platitude feels like a red-hot poker shoved into his kidneys and by the third “sorry about your father”, he feels like he might never recover. 

His father was a bastard. His father was a man who didn’t think twice about bringing his son into his shady dealings. His father was a man who drank too much, missed his wife more than he loved his sons, and turned his rage outwards towards those same sons. 

His father was the person who first taught him about cars, who spent hours underneath the hood of the Impala until Dean could take her apart in his sleep. His father was the man who would sometimes sing tunelessly along to the radio, beating time on the steering wheel. His father was the one who throw his old leather jacket over his and Sam’s sleeping figures in the backseat. Dean would wake up underneath the heavy weight, smelling motor oil and leather, and know that some part of his father was still alive, underneath the grief and bitterness. 

Fuck, he really should call Missouri. 

His attention is interrupted by Hell’s Most Wanted. Unlike the rest of the teachers, Meg’s face doesn’t automatically rearrange itself into horrified pity when she sees him. Instead, she smiles like a shark scenting chum in the water. 

“Got damn near the whole school looking for you Dean-o. Reckon you should start talking to your fanclub.” 

Dean sighs and glares at his laptop screen. “Seems you’ve been talking to them enough for the both of us.” 

“Ah, they’re not really my kind of people.” Meg leans up against the table, her posture saying clearly that she could spend the rest of the day like this. Dean concentrates harder, like by sheer focus of will, he could wish her away. “But for whatever reason they do seem damn worried about you.” 

“Their mistake.” 

“And I don’t disagree, believe me,” Meg drawls. “But for whatever reason, you’ve pulled on their heartstrings. Plus, Harvelle Elder and Younger are both damn scary when they’ve got a mind to be, and I’d rather not have them on the warpath this early in the week.” 

“What are you now, my therapist?” He really, really, doesn’t have the patience for this crap today. 

Meg laughs. Under other circumstances, it might sound pleasant. “I don’t have near the amount of time that it would take to fix you. You’re twenty pounds of crazy in a ten pound bag Winchester, and I think you know it too.” 

Dean bristles. It’s nothing that he hasn’t heard before, nothing that he hasn’t said to himself at least once a week, but hearing it from Meg scrapes against nerves that are already raw and hurting. 

“Well, your attempt at caring has been beyond helpful, but if you’ll excuse me.” Dean slams the lid of his laptop down, uncaring of any damage that he might be doing to the screen, and tries to storm past her. It doesn’t work. For a petite woman, Meg can fill up a doorway when she wants. 

“My point, in case you missed it Winchester, is that you’ve got a lot of good people who are worried about you, and you’re being an asshole.” 

“Wow,” Dean snaps, doing his best to loom over her, “you know my dad just died, right?”

Meg shrugs. “Never met the man. Met Benny. Met Castiel. Care more about their feelings than yours, and they’ve been going up the walls because you couldn’t bother to pick up a phone and text them.” 

Dean blinks as something sour and hot crawls up the back of his throat. It’s like Meg found every one of his soft spots and ruthlessly ripped them open with her claws. He’s bleeding, and the worst part is, she’s absolutely right. 

Worthless. He’s always been that way, and now he’s just dragging down the people that he loves along with him.

He clenches his jaw so hard that he thinks it might crack, tension making his muscles stiff and immobile. “Are you done?” he asks, cold. He thinks of Cas when he’s pissed off, that particular level of condescending and impersonal and tries to emulate it. “I have work to do.” 

Meg’s lip curls as her eyes flick up and down over Dean. Whatever she’s looking for, she finds him lacking in it. “Sure Dean-o.” Each syllable drips venom. “You do what you’ve got to do.” She nods, her gaze far off, like she’s confirming something to herself. “I told Castiel, right at the beginning, that you were nothing but a pretty face.” 

The words twist in Dean’s chest. His steps stutter and he pauses long enough so that Meg can call after him, “By the way, sorry about your dad.” 

\--

After that, Dean wants nothing more than to flee home. He wants to curl up in his bed and not come out for a thousand years. At the ringing of the final bell, he grabs his bag and darts for the back doors, determined to make it out before anyone has a chance to notice his exit. 

What he’s forgotten is that Charlie’s office is closer to his car than the back door is, and that sometimes she doesn’t play fairly. 

Case in point: she’s waiting for him when he exits into the weak mid-March warmth of the afternoon, leaning up against Baby. The look on her face warns that she’s not going to be easily dislodged. Dean stumbles to a stop when he meets her eyes and wonders if it’s too late for him to go back inside. He chances a look over his shoulder only to find out that it is: Jo waits at the doors like an overzealous Doberman. Between Charlie and Jo, he’ll take Charlie. She’s much less likely to draw blood if she hits him. 

“Your phone still working all right, Winchester?” 

Dean licks his suddenly dry lips as he walks closer to the car. “Last I checked, yeah.” There’s no way that he makes it out of this, not with either his friendship or his sanity intact. 

A look of faux-concern spreads across Charlie’s features. “Well then, there must be another reason why you weren’t answering all of our texts. Were your thumbs broken maybe? A sudden case of blindness? Photo-phobia?”

“All right, cut the cute crap,” Dean snaps. Charlie, used to his temper, barely blinks, though she does at least lose the Oscar-worthy dramatics. 

“Seriously. The last anyone saw of you was the day of your father’s funeral,” Charlie puts extra emphasis on the words, like Dean might have forgotten, “and you spend the rest of the weekend ignoring us. I had to talk Cas and Benny down from breaking in your door, and you don’t want to know what Jo was going to do with the shotgun.” A conspicuous glance to his crotch gives Dean a pretty good idea of what Jo’s target would have been at least. 

“You getting to a point anytime soon?” 

He knows that he’s hit a low point when Charlie’s face twists in confusion. While his temper might have snapped once or twice, he’s never been deliberately mean, never let the rougher edges of his personality show underneath his exterior. 

“Talk to us,” Charlie says, voice hesitant. 

Dean wants to wrap her up in a hug, kiss the top of her head, and tell her that everything’s going to be okay. He wants to curl up on Sam’s couch and listen to him recount a horrifically boring story and eat some lame-ass kale salad. He wants to go to Bobby’s and have Ellen feed him until he can’t move and share a beer on the porch with Bobby. He wants to crawl into Cas’ arms and succumb to the urge to just let go, let someone else take care of him for a change. 

Dean sneers and steps towards the car. Charlie moves away, reversing their positions. In the distance, Dean sees Jo leave her post at the door and start towards them, her steps fast and purposeful. 

“You don’t want to talk to me Charlie, not right now at least.” He wrenches the door to the Impala open and throws his bag inside. He turns back to her, hating the sight of her tear-bright eyes. A tiny, dark part of him, the one that takes its cues from John Winchester, is the smallest bit delighted. “Do yourself a favor and leave me alone.” 

He throws himself into the driver’s seat and starts the car with a violent twist of the key. Baby comes to life but her regular purr sounds startled, almost hurt. He ignores it, concentrates instead on the practicalities: namely, getting the hell out of there. He slams her into gear and punches his foot down on the gas pedal. He passes by Charlie, close enough that the wind ruffles her hair. In the rearview mirror, as he speeds away, he can see Jo arrive, see her arm wrap around Charlie’s shoulder. 

At least she’s got someone. 

\--

He’s not surprised at the insistent knock at his door, but he can’t say that he’s pleased. 

Dean’s upper lip lifts in a snarl as the sound echoes throughout the house. It rings against the inside of his skull, sending shooting pain through his body and down to his fingertips. It disrupts his pleasant state of before, where his world narrowed to himself and the bottle of Jack clutched in his fingers. Stupid as hell to drink like this on a school night; coming into work hungover is no damn joke, but with the comfortable cloak of numbness shrouding him, he can forget the sight of him tossing his phone away with his fathers’ name on the screen, he can forget the sight of the small lump of dirt at the foot of the headstone, he can forget the sight of Sam moving among the mourners. He doesn’t have to think about how he laughed when he ignored his father, how he had rejoiced to finally be free of him. He can ignore how Charlie’s eyes filled with tears, and he can forget Meg’s sneer. _Told Castiel you were nothing more than a pretty face_. 

Well, he proved her right. He’s also an asshole. 

The knocking doesn’t stop. In fact, it grows louder, to the point where Dean can’t even pretend to ignore it. He lurches to his feet, the world tilting around him before it straightens itself out. He stumbles to the door, wrenching it open. 

He expects Sam. Maybe Ellen or Jo. He doesn’t expect Cas to shove his way inside before Dean can even think about slamming the door closed. 

With Cas in his house, there’s little point in Dean standing in the door, staring stupidly out at the street. He closes the door, leaning against it for support, as he turns to look at Cas. Cas, who can’t stop pacing the length of his living room. His hair is a bigger wreck than usual, like he’s been running his fingers through it for several minutes. 

“Any particular reason you’re here?” Dean asks, when the silence drags on for several seconds. 

Cas’ eyes, when they meet Dean’s, snap and flare with anger and righteousness. The sight makes Dean want to drop to his knees and press his face into Cas’ belly in a plea for forgiveness. 

The sight sparks the simmering rage in the bottom of Dean’s gut, bellowing it into a blazing inferno. Anger curls darkly through him, and all Dean wants to do is lash out, hurt someone else like he’s hurting. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Dean pushes off the wall and walks unsteadily towards Cas. “I mean, you must have come here for a reason, right? You must have wanted to say something. So out with it.” 

He steps close, too close. Normally it’s Cas who has the problem with personal space but today it’s Dean, stepping close enough to feel the heat coming off of Cas’ body. He uses the two inches he has on Cas to his advantage, making Cas lift his chin to look him in the eyes. 

“You’re drunk,” Cas says quietly. “You should go to bed.” 

Dean laughs, a bitter, mean, sound. “It’s a little late to start lecturing me now, isn’t it? Besides,” he takes a step back and sways, “you’re not my father.” 

The words hit some kind of nerve in Cas. Dean watches his flinch with brutal satisfaction. 

“No,” Cas says, and Dean has the impression that he’s picking his words with the same care that a bomb squad uses. “I’m your friend.” Dean scoffs, and Cas blinks in confusion, but valiantly continues. “I don’t think that this is a good idea. You need to be at work tomorrow.” 

With Cas’ voice taking that superior tone, Dean's sneer comes easier. “Think you’re going to tell me what to do Cas? You want to give me a curfew next? Tell me to eat my vegetables?”

Cas takes in an even breath. “The last thing I want to do is tell you what to do. I’m here as your friend Dean.” 

That word again. It scrapes at Dean, bothers him in a way that it never has before. 

The rational, still sober, part of his brain pleads to stop this, to just give into what his body wants, which is to collapse into Cas and let him do the heavy lifting, like he always does. There’s such comfort to be found in that, and he knows that Cas is more than up to the challenge. But the larger part of him forces the hateful smirk back on his face, forces his spine to straighten and his mouth to spit out, “Are you my friend?”

For a second, Cas’ face loses its impassive mask. In that second, he looks like Dean reached out and slapped him. It’s only for a moment, and then the mask snaps back into place, but with an obvious crack. 

“Of course I’m your friend. Dean, I don’t…” Cas swallows, looking unsure for the first time since he entered. “Please, let me take care of you. Let me help you.”

“Help me.” Dean’s fingers ache for the feel of the bottle. He spies it, forgotten, against the cushions of the couch. “Yeah, because you’re such a big help.” He moves towards the bottle. Cas, seeing where his attention snapped, moves first and faster, putting himself between Dean and the liquor, and that is just not a good place to be. 

“Get out of the way Cas,” Dean says, his voice remarkably level. When Cas doesn’t move, Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him--not hard, not violently, but forceful enough that Cas takes a few involuntary steps backward. 

Dean gulps, but the whiskey’s lost its appeal. All he can taste now is the faint whiff of regret. It’s the same feeling that overpowered the hotel rooms when his father would come crashing through the door, eyes red-rimmed and seemingly unconscious of his two sons. Dean’s fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, so tight that he thinks he might crack the glass. 

Is this really what he wants to be? 

He spins away from the tentative touch on his shoulder, lips lifting in an automatic snarl. Behind him, Cas steps away, hands held up in the customary _‘Don’t shoot’_ position. “Dean,” he says, quietly, soothingly, like Dean is some kind of skittish horse that needs to be calmed down. “Dean, please just listen to me. Everyone’s worried about you and we just want to make sure that you’re ok. I’m worried about you.” 

Dean’s chest heaves up and down with the effort of breathing. It’s too much, Cas is too much. Cas is like a riptide: unseen, seemingly non-threatening and then, when you look back to shore, you’re miles away from where you started with no way to get back home. 

A bolt of honesty, one of the few that he’s allowed himself since this whole thing started between him and Cas, shoots through Dean, turning his blood cold and his extremities numb. 

Sometimes he wishes that he’d never kissed Cas at all. 

Because now he has to live with the knowledge of what Cas sounds like when he’s pleased, those low hums and soft chuffs of almost laughter as Dean noses down his neck and tugs on his hair. He has to live with how Cas tastes, the sweet salt tang of his skin. He can’t forget how Cas feels, his fingernails digging into the soft skin of his nape, or the push of his body up into Dean’s. The look of him, head thrown back on the pillows, eyes closed in artless abandon, dazed smile drifting over his face after he comes. The way that his hands gather Dean to him, greedy, always greedy, for whatever Dean can give him. And Dean, fool that he is, gives and gives, until he’s sure that he’s empty, but then it turns out that Cas demands just that little bit more. 

He can feel him now, close enough behind him to touch. The soft thump of his feet on the carpet. It’d be so easy, so goddamn easy, to give in. It’s what he wants. 

“I know that you’re hurting, believe me, I know. But it’s not going to get any better if you hide yourself away.” This time when Cas’ fingers close around his shoulder, Dean doesn’t jerk away. Heat seeps through his shirt, his left arm singing with the contact from Cas’ hand. “Please, let me help you.” 

A tiny, miserable laugh burbles out of Dean’s throat. “Yeah? And how would you do that?” Even though it brings him no joy, he takes another long drink. When he speaks again, his words slur together. If they were in a motel, then he would almost sound like his father. “You gonna fuck me again? Suck my dick? Puke so you can play hooky from work?” He turns around, and he’s a cyclone, a typhoon, uncaring of the devastation he leaves in his wake. “How exactly do you think you’re going to help me Cas, because you’re sure as hell not going to pretend to be my boyfriend and help me get through this!”

There are things, Dean knows, that can never be taken back once they’re said or done. His silence when Lisa asked him Do you even love me? John Winchester’s hand snapping out and striking Sam. These occurrences are cataclysmic, can shape the course of entire lives, like tectonic plates shifting across landscapes. 

This isn’t one of those times, but it’s damn close. 

Cas’ face goes pale and his bloodless lips press tightly together, like there’s a torrent of words fighting for escape. One arm is curled around his stomach, like he’s holding a wound, while the other arm hands limp at his side, save for his fingers curling into a fist. For a second, Dean wonders if Cas is going to hit him. He thinks that he might even let him. 

Several long seconds tick away. Dean mouths empty words but no sound comes from his lips. What is there to say? He’s put his cards on the table: he wants a relationship, he wants to be able to look at Cas and think _Mine_ , without any reservations or complications. 

Cas….doesn’t. For whatever reason, he looked at Dean, and like almost everyone else in Dean’s life, made the decision that Dean wasn’t worth the effort it would take to keep him. 

He’s surprised that he’s surprised. 

After an eternity, Cas speaks, his voice soft and devoid of any emotion. “Dean, you’re drunk.” 

_No fucking shit_ , Dean wants to say. It’s not like he’s been hiding it. But then, for a mercy, the minuscule amount of common sense he still possesses stays his mouth from spewing more venom. His knees wobble with shame and gratitude as he realizes: Cas is giving him an out. Cas is giving Dean the mercy that Dean didn’t shown him, is offering a way out of this mess, if Dean will only extend his hand and take it. 

Dean slumps--gradually at first, and then all at once, like his strings have been cut. By luck, he manages to fall on the couch, his head slamming uncomfortably into the arm. His vision blurs as the room performs slow spirals around him. From far away, he hears Cas’ voice, low and growly. He can’t make out any words. 

“Asshole,” he gets out. Why is talking so much more difficult than it was a few minutes ago? 

_Because you’re drunk_ , comes the helpful answer. 

“I know,” Cas says, his voice closer than it was before. “I’m so sorry.” Dean’s eyes close as long fingers stroke over his cheek and through his hair. “You have to believe me, I wish that I could be different.” 

“Then just...be different.” Lulled by the whiskey and Cas’ fingers working through his hair, Dean’s eyes drift shut. “Just...fuck. Be...be you but better.” 

Cas’ laugh is as mirthless as Dean’s. “I would if I could.” 

They lapse into silence. Dean dozes, feeling at peace for the first time since Saturday. It’s not real, he knows that. Every single beat of his calmed heart is stolen, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t appreciate it. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles, because it needs to be said. It won’t change anything, not now, but Dean hopes that it might lift the guilt crushing his chest. Maybe later. Certainly not right now when he’s choking on shame and regret and cheap whiskey, but maybe later. “Cas, Cas, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Cas tells him. Dean keeps his eyes closed because he can’t look. If Cas’ face is as devastated as his voice, then he can’t see the ruin of what he’s created. “You have every right to be angry.” 

“I don’t…” Dean’s slow and clumsy, so when he manages to grab onto Cas’ hand he knows it’s because the other man let him. “I don’t want to lose this.” He squeezes Cas’ fingers so that there’s no confusion about what he means. 

“Maybe you should. You’re not happy.” 

If he had the energy, Dean would roll his eyes. “Not the point,” he says, with the determination of the drunk and exhausted. “I don’t get to be happy. But with you…” he trails off, not sure where he was going to take that sentence. He knows where he wanted it to end: _The closest thing to happy that I’ve been is when I’m with you_.

Coward that he is, Dean lets those words die. 

He doesn’t say anything else to Cas for a week. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	17. nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean talks to a lot of people, except one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those of you who have stuck around with me, thank you so much. You're awesome.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Dean calls in early Tuesday morning. He must sound terrible because Becky doesn’t subject him to her normal questioning; she just accepts his reasoning with sympathetic noises and a wish for him to ‘Feel better soon’. If he wasn’t so miserable, then Dean might feel guilty for lying. As it is, his skull feels about ten seconds away from splitting apart, so he closes his eyes and falls back into a restless doze. 

He wakes up a few hours later to the sound of his front door opening and closing. Dean groans and shoves his face back into the pillow. If it’s Cas pulling another ‘Great Vomiter’ routine then he can just shove it. If it’s a burglar then they can have whatever they want. Dean's fairly convinced that if he moves from the bed he’s going to break apart like a soggy taco shell. 

What he’s not ready for is the Jolly Flannel Giant stomping into his room and opening his curtains with a deft twist of his wrist. Dean flinches and retreats into his sheets with a whimper of protest. 

“The hell are you doing here?” he groans. 

Sam, the merciless bitch that he is, tugs the comforter out of Dean’s weak grasp. Dean whines and grabs at nothing as his body automatically curls into the fetal position. “Get up,” Sam says, unsympathetic to his brother’s plight.

Dean mutters something into the pillow that was meant to sound like “ _Fuck you Gigantor_ ” but comes out completely different, if the befuddled look on Sam's face is anything to judge by. He contemplates ignoring Sam and trying to go back to sleep: he’s hungover enough that he could probably pull it off, but there’s something inherently vulnerable about being in the fetal position in nothing but your boxers while your XXXL brother stands over you. 

Dean gets out of bed and tries not the wince at the particular brilliance of the sun. 

When his eyes finally make the decision to start working again, he squints at Sam. “You look like crap.” 

Sam, in fact, does not look like crap. He looks like someone who holds down a respectable job, owns a house, and drives a hybrid. He looks like someone who falls asleep every night next to the person that he loves and who didn’t drink himself into unconsciousness after calling the person that he loves an asshole. In his flannel and jeans, Sam looks like he could be going to the Farmer’s Market after he gets his failure of a big brother up and on his feet. 

To his credit, Sam doesn’t point any of that out. He just rolls his eyes and gestures in the direction of the bathroom. Dean goes, though not without a snarl and muttered threat to take a rusty pair of scissors to Sam’s hair. 

The hot water feels good on his skin and Dean relaxes under the spray. When he emerges, clad in nothing but a towel, Sam has thankfully made his way downstairs. Apparently he thinks that Dean is at least capable of dressing himself, which is refreshing. 

Sam is waiting for him when Dean trundles down the stairs. It’s like having an extremely oversized Labrador, and Dean’s never really been that fond of dogs. He pushes past Sam and grabs a box of cereal. He sniffs at the milk and pulls a face--still good enough to use, and gulps down an approximation of breakfast. Through all this, Sam watches him, with a benevolent expression on his face. 

It’s really starting to piss Dean off. 

“You here for a sleepover?” he asks around his mouthful. A thin stream of milk dribbles out the corner of his mouth. Sam valiantly ignores it, though Dean can see the small muscles in the corner of his jaw twitching with repression. 

“Little early in the day for a sleepover, isn’t it?” Sam’s voice is the kind of mild and patient that is normally used on the very young or very elderly. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge and turns the sugary goodness to ash in his mouth. 

“So why are you here then?” He lifts his chin in clear challenge. 

Sam doesn’t take the bait. Instead he steeples his fingers and places them under his chin, regarding Dean from underneath the edges of his alarmingly long hair. Seriously, how has this guy not been kicked out of a courtroom? 

“You don’t answer your phone, you ignore us all weekend, you upset Charlie--”

“What, did Cas come crying to you?” Dean grunts, dumping the remnants of his cereal down the garbage disposal. 

He turns back just in time to see Sam blink in startled confusion. “No, I haven’t talked to him since--What did you do to Cas?” 

Dean thinks back to last night, to Cas in his living room, face stripped raw and bare. “Nothing,” he mumbles. Sam’s sharp gaze doesn’t waver and Dean waves his hands in order to deflect. “Well, you can see for yourself. I’m alive, I’m functioning. Can I help you with anything else?” 

“Get some shoes on,” Sam tells him, still not rising to his bait. “We’re going for a drive.” 

And Dean’s down for a drive, in fact, there are few things that would make him feel better, but not a drive in Sam’s plastic fake car. The thing isn’t even a respectable primary color for god’s sake; it’s some awful pasty mint green that looks like what a baby would poop out. “Hell no,” Dean says, planting his feet in the driveway. “If we’re driving, then we’re taking my Baby.”

Sam purses his lips in that way that makes him look like a Grandma as he stands with his hand on the door handle of his Prius. Exasperation wars with long-suffering compassion on his face and it's a wonder that he doesn't burst with all that sanctimonious crap. He tells Sam something along those lines, but Sam's wised up and just looks back at him with infinite patience. Sam looks like he could stay put until the Second Coming, or until Dean decides to go with him, whichever comes first. 

Dragging his feet to make his resentment known, Dean yanks open the door and throws himself in the seat. He almost kicks the dash but manages to restrain himself at the last minute. He doesn’t want to appear even more like a child, and he also doesn’t want to have to deal with the massive bitchfest that would come out of Sam’s mouth if he hurt his car. 

Dean waits until they’re driving away from his townhouse before he speaks. “So, what’s with the road trip?” he asks, focusing on the houses flying by. 

Sam doesn’t answer for a moment, long enough to make Dean look over at him. “You think I don’t know when you’re imploding?” He keeps his eyes focused on the road in front of him, even through the red lights. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “No matter what else I may have thought about him, he was my dad too.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches Sam’s throat bob. “I never...I was always on the outside looking in with you two. I was never going to fit in with him, never going to be his favorite. And I...I resented the hell out of you for it sometimes, because you could just...talk to him. And sometimes, he’d actually listen to you. Treat you like an equal. And that…” Sam shakes his head. “When the teachers at school would ask me about my dad, for the longest time, you know who I thought of first?” 

Dean doesn’t answer, but he’s pretty sure it’s the type of question he’s not supposed to answer. Sam answers, his words quiet, dragged up from the deep, quiet places that are never meant to be unearthed. 

“You. I thought of my stupid older brother, who made sure that I had lunch packed, who made sure that I had clothes for school, who shoplifted school supplies every fall so that I could have the best.”

Dean stares intently out the window. He wants to yank open the door and tumble out but he can’t. He remembers those days, remembers sprinting out of box stores with pencils and notebook paper stuffed underneath his shirt, Sam’s wide-eyed look of delight when Dean dumped the loot out on the bed. Kid acted like it was Christmas come early, all because Dean managed to sneak out a pencil case. 

“So you can be sad about Dad, and you can idolize him, and you can push away all your family and friends because he’s gone,” Sam’s voice is relentless, tearing away at the flimsy wall Dean threw up, “but what you can’t do is pretend like he was more than what he was. He wasn’t the best father in the world. He wasn’t even the okayest father in the world. You are…” Sam sniffles and Dean can’t even make fun of him for it, too afraid that his voice will wobble if he speaks. “You’re twice the man that he ever was.”

The Prius rolls to a stop. Dean looks out the window and recognizes the large Victorian house, along with the shingle in front. 

_Dr. Missouri Moseley, Therapist_

Dean’s forehead thunks softly against the window. “Seriously?” he asks, without much venom. Some small part of him sighs in relief. The decision’s out of his hands and now all that’s left to do is just walk up the steps and through the door. 

“She’s waiting for you.” Sam says nothing else, doesn’t push and Dean could hug him for that, if he were a hugging person. 

Dean’s hands paw at the door handle for a moment before he remembers how to work the tendons and bones. He opens the door and the fresh spring air hits him like a slap in the face. He takes a deep breath. This is Missouri. This is nothing special. 

“Call me when you’re done,” Sam says, before Dean nods and closes the door. The Prius pulls away, swiftly enough that there’s no hope of Dean changing his mind and hopping back in. All that’s left is for him to walk up the sidewalk, past the hydrangeas, and up the steps to the covered front porch. The door hasn’t changed in years, its stained glass design familiar. Dean twists the knob and steps into the house. 

The scent hits him first, wildflowers and cinnamon and he breathes deep. The voice hits him next, that particular blend of chiding and concerned that only Missouri and Ellen have managed to master. 

“Boy, get in here and let me have a look at you!” 

A smile tugs at Dean’s face, despite himself, and he walks the oft-trod steps to Missouri’s office. It’s a small room, lined with bookshelves. A window behind her desk provides natural light. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams as lazy shadows flicker over the chair and loveseat in the room. Missouri gets the chair. Dean gets the loveseat. 

In four years, Missouri hasn’t aged a day. She gazes at Dean, at once disappointed and encouraging. “Dean Winchester,” she finally says, after her eyes perform a trip up and down his body several times, assessing. “Tell me why your brother had to call and set up this meeting?”

Dean gulps as he fights the urge to shuffle his feet like a naughty boy. He doesn’t have an answer and thankfully Missouri rescues him by waving a hand in his direction. “Well, have a seat and let me know what’s been happening.”

—

 

Talking to Missouri is easy. Always has been. If Dean were to hazard a guess, he’d say it’s because talking to Missouri resembles talking to an old babysitter: someone who’s known him for years, and is too familiar with him to be impressed with his bullshit, so there’s very little point in beginning it in the first place. 

She eases the way by asking him about his job, his apartment, his friends. What classes he teaches. Which kids are his favorites. Dean’s reticent at the beginning (who likes going to a person and saying _Hey my brain isn’t working can you do a tuneup_?) but before he knows it, he’s talking about how awesome his seniors are, how proud he is of them, how well they’re doing on their Capstone projects. 

“Cas and I were really proud of how well it all turned out,” Dean says, maybe a little too enthusiastically, because Missouri’s head lifts up like a dog who’s caught the scent. 

“Cas?”

“Yeah, he teaches in the history department. We designed the project together.” 

Missouri’s lips purse and Dean’s worried, but then her expression smooths and she moves onto ask him more about the pressures of being Department Chair at such a young age. Dean knows that's not the end of it, but he doesn't say anything further. He really, really, really doesn't want to talk about Cas right now. 

They dance around the topic of John for what seems like hours until Missouri finally taps the edge of her pen against the legal pad in her lap. 

“Dean, your father died.” 

A hot lump rises in Dean’s throat at the words-- _He died_. He didn’t pass away, he isn’t gone, John Winchester _died_. He died, and there’s no coming back from that, just like Mom died and left Dean alone--

In the calm atmosphere of Missouri’s office, a torrent spills out of Dean’s mouth. It feels like throwing up after a day of feeling crappy, like lancing a boil, like draining pus from a wound. He talks about his father coming back to the motel drunk, he talks about how his father looked at Sam and Dean sometimes like they were strangers, or worse, like they were enemies. How one smile from his father could shift Dean’s whole world view. How, one afternoon, for the first time, Dean ignored his father when his father needed him. 

Missouri pauses, her pen raised like a conductor’s baton. “What do you mean?” she asks, non-judgmental, just curious. 

Dean shifts, his skin too tight and uncomfortable. That’s the problem with Missouri, with feeling comfortable, is that you start talking and before you know it, you’re saying a bunch of shit that should have been kept nestled right in the sick, slimy spaces of your chest. “I don’t...It’s not a big deal,” he says. 

Missouri’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes snap to where Dean’s cracking his knuckles. With effort, he forces his fingers to still. “I was just with a, uh, a friend, and he called. And instead of answering, I ignored him.” Guilt sits like an anvil on his chest and he neglects to mention the fact that he ignored three subsequent calls, that every time he pressed ignore on the screen he was as giddy as the child he’d never had a chance to be.

“Dean honey, refresh my memory,” Missouri says, and Dean’s so surprised by the swift change in her voice and posture that he automatically finds himself leaning closer to her. “What did your father die of?”

Dean stammers out a few syllables before he finally comes up with “A, ah, a heart attack.”

Missouri hums noncommittally. “And did he die alone?” 

“No.” Dean swallows. The police told him this story when he and Sam made the claim on the body. “He went to the ER and said that he hadn’t been feeling good all day. It was, um, it was too late though. The doctors couldn’t really do anything.” 

Missouri hums again. “So what you’re telling me is that a group of medical professionals working together couldn’t save your father.” She meets Dean’s eyes. “Honey, do you think that your father’s death was your fault?”

For a moment, Dean can’t breathe. It’s that simple. All the oxygen has left the room and Missouri must have gotten the lion’s share of it, because there she is, breathing fine and normally and meanwhile, Dean’s suffocating. Missouri waits, unchanging as mountains and deserts, for his answer. 

“I didn’t...What if he needed me?” Dean asks, his voice tiny and broken in the silence of the room. “What if, when he called me, it was because he needed me, and I didn’t answer him?” 

Missouri’s expression never changes, but her eyes turn soft around the edges. “Did your father ever ask for help before?”

Dean pauses as he reflects on twenty-four years of conversations. His father asked for money, ordered him to stay, snapped and roared, but in all the time he knew him, he could never recall John Winchester asking for help. The expression on his face is plain enough, and Missouri presses on. “Answer me this Dean. If the doctors, with all their training, couldn’t save your father, and your father wasn’t calling you asking you for help, then why would you think that his death was your fault?”

Something thick and sour rises in Dean’s throat, all the way up to his eyes. He chokes, breath escaping his throat in a ragged sob. Something wet runs down his cheek. He dabs angrily at it, only to have to repeat the action again and again. It’s only then that he realizes that he’s crying, fat, soul-hurt tears that won’t stop falling no matter how fast and hard he blinks. 

“You can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders Dean,” Missouri says, faraway and gentle. “You’ll just end up crushing yourself that way. You loved your father and that’s fine. You hated him a little, and that’s fine too. But you weren’t responsible for his death.” 

He can’t stop. The tears fall faster now and he tries to catch his breath, but he can’t. Awful, high-pitched gasps tear his throat apart, and he can’t stop, he can’t stop--

A warm hand on the back of his neck snaps him out his stupor and he numbly accepts the glass of water Missouri presses into his hand. He gulps it down without thinking, only to have half the glass burble out of his mouth when he coughs. He wipes at his mouth with the cuff of his jacket and grunts in frustration as the fabric swiftly dampens. A box of tissues finds its way into his hands and he grabs several, wiping at his face until he feels back in control. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking away from Missouri as she returns to her seat. 

“Don’t apologize,” she says, sounding like she has grown men breaking down in her office every day. Who knows? She’s a hell of a therapist; she probably does. “How do you feel?”

The word _Fine_ is on Dean’s lips before he can stop to think about it. He knows Missouri’s views on deflection and he did just break down in front of her, so he does her the courtesy of at least examining his emotions. He feels...empty. Not in the awful, hollow, aching way of past, but clean. Like he’s managed to wash away all the cobwebs and wounded parts of him, leaving nothing but tender, clean flesh behind. 

“Better,” he finally decides, and Missouri smiles. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean stays another fifteen minutes, during which time he and Missouri work on several breathing exercises, and Dean very carefully avoids any and all mentions of Castiel. Judging from the shifty looks he receives from Missouri, she knows that he’s holding something back, but she doesn’t push. Dean’s glad. One breakdown per day is about all he can handle. 

After their time is up, Dean gets up and wishes Missouri well. She laughs in his face as he tries to leave and says, “No, schedule another appointment sometime in the next two weeks,” and Dean does so. He can’t deny the lightness of relief that rushes through his body as he does so, which tells him that he’s probably making the right decision. 

He and Sam don’t talk about it when Sam comes to pick him up. They don’t talk about much of anything until Sam pulls in at Dean’s favorite diner. “Lunch?” Sam asks, and Dean has the sneaking suspicion that Sam’s only humoring him, but if he gets a greasy burger and a slice of pie out of the deal, then he’ll call it a win. 

He returns to work the next day and falls into a routine. He makes a halfway, shitty apology to Charlie, who interrupts him halfway through, and then they pretend like they never fought. It’s not comfortable, but it works. Benny keeps on dropping off baked goods and Dean pretends like they’re not sympathy baked goods. It’s not comfortable, but it works. Sam texts him every day and Dean obediently answers. It’s not comfortable, but it works. 

He doesn’t text Cas. What would he even say? Their last conversation weighs down on Dean, fraught with possibilities and pitfalls. Even though Dean couldn’t stop his mouth from running, there are still so many things that hang unsaid between them, each a landmine in their parody of a relationship. 

Dean aches with the separation. It wasn’t until he tried to remove Cas from his life that he realized how deeply the other man had embedded himself in it. There’s no dinners in the middle of the week, no shared glances over a morning cup of coffee, no text to alleviate stress. His skin yearns for the press of fingers, the brush of lips. His bed seems too empty and cold and Dean sleeps fitfully, and wakes reaching for a body that isn’t there. 

Thursday, he sees Cas walking down the hallway in the opposite direction. Their eyes meet for a long, painful second. A myriad of emotions splash across Cas’ face, too many to recognize, until they all disappear, Cas’ face shuttered. Dean’s heart claws its way up into his throat. He wants to shout after Cas, but he’s gone before Dean can even sputter out a greeting. 

His weekend passes in a haze. He can’t stay still, or focus on a task for longer than twenty minutes. He fails to grade any papers, walks away from his plans, and leaves the dishes half-washed in the sink. He knows what he wants, more than anything, but he can’t bring himself to ask for it. If Cas wanted him, then he would have called. The sting of rejection sits heavy on Dean, until it’s all he can think about, all he can breathe. 

Monday, Cas doesn’t show up to work. He fails to make an appearance Tuesday, and by Wednesday, he’s still missing. Dean overhears the news in the office that morning as he’s checking his mailbox. Becky is commiserating to another teacher about poor Mr. Milton’s health, how he was a few weeks ago, and then called out again this week, and she hopes that nothing’s wrong with him. Dean listens with an impassive face, and ignores the inquisitive looks from other teachers who know full well that he and Cas have been living in each other’s pockets for the past months. 

On the walk to his room, Dean’s phone burns in his pocket. The urge to text Cas tingles in his fingers until he has to clench his fist. He has to repeat to himself, like a mantra, that if Cas wanted him to know, then he would have told him. Cas’ radio silence says, more eloquently than words ever could, exactly how he feels about Dean’s presence in his life. 

But all throughout the day, Dean can’t shake the memories. Cas’ smile, his fingers as they smooth over Dean’s shoulders, his back, his chest. The security of Cas’ body over top his, the relief in surrendering. Cas _cared_ , he knows it. The last time they were together, when Cas drove across town just because Dean called, because he thought that Dean needed him--the care he took with him in the shower, hands moving over Dean like he was made of porcelain, the way that he took Dean apart with such consummate skill that all Dean could do was fall back together...There’s no way in hell that Cas could fake that level of care. 

What if Cas needs him? 

The thought of his father’s name on his cellphone haunts him, spurs Dean to drive to Cas’ house after school. He pulls into the driveway, right beside the tin can that Cas likes to call a car. Dean regards the lawn and freshly budding flowers with a sense of trepidation that he’s never felt before. His heart thuds in his chest and he feels sick with the prospect. What if Cas turns him away? What if Cas tells him that it was all a mistake, that he regrets every second of it? That he never wants to speak to Dean again? 

God help him, but even after everything, Dean loves him, he _loves_ Cas so goddamn much that he thinks he’ll split apart from the sheer misery of it all. 

He knocks on the door perfunctorily, before twisting the knob. The door opens, and Dean steps inside. “Cas?” he asks into the darkened house. “Cas, it’s me, are you here?” His eyes sweep the living room. Nothing seems to have changed in the empty room. The couch, the chair--A small figure shifts in the corner of the dim room and Dean jumps backwards with a strangled shout. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

The figure steps forward and the weak afternoon sun illuminates their features. A woman, tall and slender, stands in Castiel’s living room. Her vibrant red hair contrasts sharply with her pale skin and gives her an almost sickly tinge. She reminds Dean of a heroine of a Victorian novel--waif-like, fragile. 

“Are you looking for Castiel?” Her smile is an ill-fitting accessory for her face. It slides over her features, like it took a wrong exit off the interstate and can’t quite figure out the way back home. Her large eyes open and close in a slow blink before she focuses on Dean’s face with a laser-like intensity. There’s something familiar about her. Dean has the itching suspicion that he’s seen her face before, but when he wracks his memory, he can’t place her. 

“This is his house,” Dean answers, defensive in the wake of her sharpening interest. “Stands to reason I’d be looking for him.”

“And why are you looking for Castiel?” The woman’s voice trips over the syllables of Cas’s name, turning it into a dance. _Cas-TEE-ell_. The familiarity sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. Impossible that Cas would have found someone else. Impossible that this woman could know Cas in the same way that Dean does. His chest constricts at the memory of her voice caressing Castiel’s name as it leaves her mouth. 

“He hasn’t been into work in three days. I wanted to make sure he was all right. I know he’s home; his car’s in the driveway. I just need to talk to him.” The longer he speaks, the more desperate his voice gets, until Dean clenches his jaw shut. He starts towards Cas’ bedroom, only to have his way blocked. 

The woman slides in front of him with an uncannily familiar grace. Her doe eyes regard his face seriously as her mouth purses in a frown. “I don’t think so,” she says. 

The blankness of her expression forces Dean’s feet half a step backward before he regains his testicles and holds his ground against ninety pounds of woman. “Look, I appreciate you being a watchdog for him, but Cas is a big boy. He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself and I really need to talk to him. So if you’ll just excuse me…” 

He tries to slide around her but she effortlessly places herself in front of him yet again. An infuriating smile lurks on her face. She knows what she’s doing and she’s taking pleasure in it. Dean’s upper lip lifts in a frustrated snarl as he rolls his eyes. His gaze falls on Cas’ mantle and the pictures on it, and then he sees it. 

The woman’s face peers out at him through a photograph. She’s younger, but her eyes still have the poignant sadness to them. Huge blue eyes. 

Dean blinks, jealousy gone and replaced by something else more insidious as he asks, “Anna?”

Faint surprise registers on the woman’s, Anna’s, face. “You know me?” Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “I’ve never met you before.” 

“No, we’ve never met, but I’ve seen you.” Dean gestures to the pictures behind her. Anna looks. Upon seeing her own picture, her head tilts, an aching echo of her sibling’s mannerism. She remains transfixed by the image, like if she stares long enough she can find everything that’s she once lost. “Cas, uh, Cas talks about you.” 

Anna’s head snaps around to fix Dean in her stare. His brain races to recall everything that Cas told him about Anna--his sister, older by three years. She took care of him, before and after their father left until one day...she left too. 

Dean casts about for the safest topic. “He talks sometimes about when you were kids.” 

“Why would he do that?” Far from sounding comforted, Anna’s voice rises in a faint wail. “Why would he…? Castiel!” Her eyes dart back to the hallway, to the bedrooms and office. “Castiel!” 

Hurried footsteps echo down the hallway, growing louder, until Cas bursts into the living room. His eyes land on Anna first, flicking up and down her frame like he’s looking for injuries. She looks terrible, arms wrapped around her waist as she shudders. Her long red hair falls forward, hiding her face from Dean. 

“Cas, I don’t, I can’t, he knows things, and I thought that we weren’t going to, you said that you wouldn’t... “ Her voice is soft but threaded with panic. “He knows, he said that you talked to him…” Anna’s head jerks towards Dean and Cas' eyes automatically follow. Dean's been staring at Cas this whole time and has already seen the worry writ in every line on his face, but nothing can prepare him for the look of naked panic in Cas’ eyes. 

It lasts only for a second, but it’s long enough to send sliver of ice straight into Dean’s heart. He’s seen Cas unclothed, he’s seen him in the grip of a minute long orgasm, he’s seen him asleep, and in the shower, and in almost every state that it’s possible for one person to be. But he’s never seen Cas look this vulnerable. 

Then Cas’ focus returns to his sister as he steps forward. “It’s ok,” he soothes, brushing her hair out of her face. He hooks it behind her ear with a tender gesture. “That’s Dean. He’s the friend that I was telling you about. You can trust him. You know that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” Cas places a hand on the side of Anna’s face. One of her hands comes up to grab his wrist, in a bruising grip, if the white skin surrounding her fingers is anything to judge by. 

“Come on,” Cas says, after a few moments. “I need to talk to Dean for a second.” Anna follows him willingly, her fingers finding a home in the cuff of Cas’ shirt. Before he exits the room, Cas’ eyes find Dean’s. The unspoken request is easy enough to read there: _Stay_. 

The two disappear into the hallway. If he strains his ears then Dean can hear the quiet murmurs of their conversation, but he deliberately draws back out of listening range. His curiosity gnaws at him like a living thing, but he can’t bear the thought of the look on Cas’ face if he found out that Dean was eavesdropping. 

He paces around the room while waiting for Cas to come back. Predictably, his steps take him to the mantle. He looks at Anna’s picture before taking it off the shelf and examining it. It’s impossible to say how old Anna is in the photo: she has a timeless sort of face, like you might find in old Hollywood. Dean traces the lines of her face, the cut of her jaw so similar to that of Cas’. 

“Dean.” At the sound of Cas’ voice Dean whirls around. He clutches the picture close to his chest, like he’s been caught in the midst of something illicit. Ridiculous: if Cas didn’t want people to look at these pictures then he wouldn’t have framed them and put them up for people to see. But there’s something in Cas’ eyes, a defensiveness, that makes Dean immediately wrong-footed. 

“So,” he says, forcing a brash grin onto his face, “your sister, huh?” 

“Yes.” Cas is hard to read at the best of times, but now, he’s damn near impossible. 

Dean waits, but that’s all that Cas seems willing to give. It’s now, in the silence stretching between the two of them, that Dean finally takes stock of Cas’ outfit. Far from lazy, stay at home clothes, Cas is wearing one of his nicest suits: black pants and button-down shirt, with a dark grey waistcoat and a red tie to finish. He looks like he’s just come from the opening of an art gallery. 

“Where have you been?” Dean asks. After the words come out, he winces. There’s no way to make it sound less like an accusation, so he just waits for Cas to answer. 

“I’ve been...busy, the past few days,” Cas answers. His eyes flick to the side, and Dean bristles. Cas' usual problem with eye contact is that he makes too much of it. For Cas to now, suddenly, not be able to meet his eyes...At least now he knows what Cas looks like when he’s lying. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only grows. It was a mistake to come here, a mistake to ever interact with Cas. He _wants_ , so badly. He wants to wrap his arms around Cas, sooth away the stress lingering in the corners of his eyes, press his lips to the tiny furrows in his forehead. He wants to relax into bed, fingers relearning lost topography. He wants a lot of things, but Cas is lying to him and pulling away from him, and Dean needs to leave. 

“I’ll just leave you to it then.” Regret bubbles up hot in Dean’s throat and he turns, only to be stopped by Cas’ fingers wrapping around his wrist. 

“Dean.” It’s pathetic, how easily Cas has him wrapped around his finger, but the sound of his name, in that tone of voice, is all that it takes for Dean to stop. 

“I don’t...I don’t want to be like this. With you.” Cas’ eyes are wide, pleading, maybe saying more than he ever will. “I don’t like this,” he admits in a whisper, as though the words are shameful. 

Dean swallows. His words from last week echo back at him. _Then just be better. Be you, but be better_. 

Taking his silence for rejection, Cas’ fingers loosen their grip. Before he can slip all the way away, Dean twists his wrist, grabs onto the sleeve of Cas’ shirt. “I don’t like it either,” Dean says. He resists the urge to pull Cas closer, bring him back into his orbit. “But with this, the radio silence? It’s not working Cas.” 

He feels like he’s ripping open his own chest as he speaks, but it’s the truth. If there’s one thing that he learned from his time with Missouri, it’s that while the truth might sting, cut, and disable, it’s usually clean. 

For a moment, Cas looks like he’s been slapped, but then his face returns to its normal state. “What do you want to do about it?” 

Why is it his responsibility? Resentment rises, thick and hot, in Dean’s stomach. Why, after everything, is this put on him? Suddenly, Dean is just very, very tired. 

“I just want…” he sighs, and rubs the back of his neck. He wants things to go back to the way they were. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a damn sight better than this. He wants to be able to wake up on Saturday morning with the feel of Cas plastered against his back, arm wrapped tight around his stomach. He wants to cook breakfast and waste the day loafing on the couch, wants to irritate Cas to where his patience snaps and then he rolls over and pins Dean with that particular little snarl on his face...He wants a goddamn lot of things. 

“I don’t know,” Dean finally says. Because he wants that, but he also wants honesty, wants the truth. And the truth is that Cas has been hiding an awful lot of shit from him, like his sister, who is obviously not playing with a full deck, and the reason why Cas is staying home from work dressed to the nines in his Sunday best. “I don’t want this, but I don’t…”

Cas nods. A tiny muscle in the bolt of his jaw twitches. “I understand.” 

Dean’s weak, he’s so goddamn weak, but he’s shattering, the small pieces ground into dust in his chest until he’s hollow. He pulls Cas forward, until there’s less than an inch of space between them, until the tips of Cas’ fringe brush his nose and chin. He can smell Cas’ shampoo, citrus and coconut, and something, a sharp stiletto heel placed firmly on his tender parts, twists. 

So goddamn weak. He brushes his lips against Cas’ temple, nuzzles his nose into his hair. Cas exhales in a series of shaky puffs, and Dean shudders as hands rest tentatively on his waist. “I’m sorry,” Dean hears, Cas' voice weak and so soft that it’s almost inaudible. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” 

“Me too,” Dean says. It’s only here, with one hand resting on the curve of Cas’ neck and the other at the small of his back, that he feels the broken parts of himself knitting back together. 

“I know there’s things that you want to know, things that you want me to _be_ , but I…” Cas takes a moment and breathes, his throat jumping against the side of Dean’s hand. “I just need some time. I need to…” Cas’ forehead loses its fight with gravity and presses into Dean’s shoulder. When he finishes speaking, his voice is muffled. “I just need time.” 

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs into Cas’ hair, feeling the pieces inside him grind into fine powder, “yeah, I think that’s what everyone needs.” 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Cas’ absence is a living, lingering presence in his chest. Dean tries to ignore it, but he can’t, finds himself reaching for the empty places and prodding around the raw edges of the wound. He goes through his days, but the routines and rituals feel almost as empty as him. If his students notice the difference, then they don’t say anything. If his friends notice that he laughs less and his smiles aren’t as bright as before, no doubt they chalk it up to his father’s death and leave it alone. 

Sam notices, because Sam notices everything. He’s the only one who knows, about him and Cas, so he’s the only to ask, tentative, over dinner, “How’s Cas?” 

The look that Dean gives him must speak volumes. Sam drops the question and doesn’t ask it again. 

To fill up his empty evenings, Dean takes to spending most of his time with Sam and Jess, Charlie, and Benny. He shoots so many games of pool at the Roadhouse that he eventually runs out of regulars to hustle and is reduced to playing against himself. He stays late after school, throwing himself headfirst into his work. He visits Bobby and fixes clunkers for free, bending underneath hoods until his muscles ache from overuse. In short, he does everything possible to exhaust himself so that when he falls into bed he spends as little time as possible ruminating on the sad, pathetic waste that his life’s become. 

He’s had breakups before. He’s lost friends before. But this stings worse than all of them and no matter how much he tries, Dean can’t shake away the feeling of worthlessness that dogs his steps. The feeling that he had everything in the palm of his hand and, through carelessness or nefarious design, let it all slip away. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The end of April races towards them, and with it, Sam’s wedding. His brother alternates between giddy and terrified, and the whiplash from the switch between moods is enough to put Dean in traction. But when he catches sight of Sam’s smile, or the possessive way that Jess strokes her engagement ring, Dean can’t bring himself to be anything but delighted for his brother. 

He finishes his planning for the stag party. He manufactures enthusiasm for the event, but it’s hollow at best. Previously, he’d envisaged himself sitting next to Castiel, through dinner and afterward. Maybe, if they were both feeling frisky, his hand would creep up the line of Cas’ inseam, rest on his inner thigh as the night progressed, maybe, if he were feeling ballsy enough, he’d venture further…

There were going to be _strippers_. He’d had _plans_. 

He should have learned by now. Every time he plans for happiness, for fulfillment, it all ends up in shit. He books the dinner and space at the club (the gentleman’s bar, as he’s stiffly informed), and carefully doesn’t think about how he’s going to be forced into close proximity with not only Sam’s tool friends from law school, but also Cas. 

Cas, who passes him in the hallway like a ghost. Cas, who doesn’t text or stop by for dinner. Cas, who, when Dean asked him “Hey, how’s Anna?” looked at Dean almost like he was afraid. Like Dean had caught him doing something foul. The moment had passed quickly enough and Cas had muttered some bullshit excuse and left with all the speed of a fleeing convict. 

And Dean does what’s easiest, what he’s done since he was a child and Does Not Think About It. He spends so much time Not Thinking About It, that before he knows, it’s Friday night and everyone’s due to arrive at Sam’s house in a few minutes so that they can meet up before they go to dinner. 

“Are you sure that you’re going to be all right tonight?” Sam asks, seizing the moment of quiet before everyone arrives. 

“Strippers Sammy,” Dean answers. As deflections go, it’s not half bad, but someone must have taught Sam the secret of non-answers in Lawyer School, but he’s not buying the crap that Dean’s peddling. 

“I know that things are weird between you and Cas lately--”

“Yeah ok, you know what, we are just not going there right now.” Dean hates the snap in his voice, hates that way that Sam flinches. It’s a learned instinct that his brother has, to react cautiously from men’s sharp voices, and Dean’s stomach clenches in disgust. “Sorry,” he says, too late to erase any damage. “Don’t worry about Cas. Tonight’s about you and your last chance to stuff a bunch of singles into a g-string.” 

It works--Sam’s face takes on its Grandma expression, the one that remains firm even in the face of Dean’s leer. “You know that I didn’t really want the strippers right?”

“Oh come Sammy,” Dean says, clapping his brother on the shoulder as the doorbell rings, “I thought that you weren’t supposed to lose your balls until after she put the ring on you.” Sam shoots him a supremely unimpressed look, which only worsens when Dean muses, “Of course, that’s assuming that they ever dropped in the first place--”

He probably deserves the smack to the back of his head. 

\--

The night is every bit as awkward as Dean had feared. Sam’s friends from Stanford and the firm are there, every polo wearing, Saturday morning golfing, Porsche driving bit of them. It’s not necessarily that Dean hates them, but they might as well come from a different planet. Several kind souls, under the misguided impression that Dean must be aching for conversation, attempt to talk to him about his investment portfolio of all things. Lost as soon as the conversation begins, Dean stares blankly until they wander off in search of fresh prey. 

It’s small consolation that Cas, who can actually fake a conversation about a 401k, looks just as uncomfortable as Dean feels. At the time, when Sam had said, _Hey, I’m going to invite Cas to the stag party_ , Dean had foolishly thought that he was gaining an ally, someone to stand with him against the surge of yuppieness that was sure to ensue. Instead, he’s just found another person to avoid.

Dinner is an endless affair of sushi, of all things. The feel of raw fish against his tongue makes Dean’s stomach turn, but he did foist strippers on his brother, so this is the concession that he makes. Sam, the absolute nerd, loves every second of it, and twirls his chopsticks like he’s Picasso in front of a canvas. 

Dean wants to take enjoyment from his brother’s sheer exuberance, and he does, he honestly does, but his eyes are constantly drawn to Castiel. Castiel who wanted him to try sushi months ago, Cas who moves his chopsticks like a figure skater, with graceful loops and whorls, who lets nary a drop of rice fall. 

Ok, so Dean may be staring a little bit. 

But could anyone really blame him? It’s been ages since he had the opportunity to just look at Cas, really look at him. His features are the same but his skin is more sallow than Dean remembers, the corners of his eyes drawn and pinched. Faint purple circles lurk underneath Cas’ eyes and Dean’s never thought of Cas as _old_ , but he can see it now. 

It makes the vindictive parts of him slither over each other in glee. Cas is suffering. 

It makes the larger parts of him, the ones that beat protectiveness through his veins, scream. Cas is suffering. Cas is unhappy. It goes against everything that Dean is to leave him like that, but he does. He doesn’t talk to Cas through the whole meal, even though he can feel the telltale prickle on the back of his neck that says that Cas is looking at him as often as he’s looking at Cas. 

Why are they even doing this to each other? At this point, Dean can’t tell. 

Dinner passes as the rest of the party eats enough fish to fill an aquarium. Dean snacks on shrimp and hopes fervently that they serve nachos or fries at the club. 

Once the party files into the strip club ( _gentlemen’s club_ the prissy voice corrects), Dean regrets every decision which led him to this point. Strip clubs were fun when he was twenty-one and had ready cash to throw at the dancers, but now that he’s almost thirty and surrounded by a bunch of almost-strangers, he just feels skeezy. It doesn’t help that Sam’s friends, apparently relieved of any social mores after eating half the Indian Ocean, immediately start whooping and catcalling. Dean shrinks into himself and orders a double shot. 

He speaks to a waiter and in short order, Sam has a beautiful, half naked woman, writhing in his lap. Sam’s expressions flicker back and forth between horrified and awkwardly aroused, and if Dean didn’t have half his mind on his own personal shit, he’d be pissing himself with laughter. Even so, he manages to snag a quick video, just for blackmail’s sake. 

After Sam’s lap dance, the party splits into separate pieces. Dean can’t say that he’s sorry for it. He watches the lawyers head off to various tables, some bordering the stage, some not. Sam takes a seat at the bar, far away from any wayward strippers who might try to accost him. Dean spies an empty seat and slides into it, thankful for any sort of reprieve. 

Because his life is awful and he never gets anything even remotely resembling good, Dean isn’t left alone for long. Cas slides into the empty seat opposite him and the world stops. Everything fades away--the noise and bustle, the neon lights, the pounding bass line, the scent of perfume and sweat mingling together--until all that remains is just him and Cas`. Dean leans closer across the table and tries not to think about why his elbows are sticking on the surface. 

Cas leans in closer, his eyes luminous and mesmerizing. Dean could drown in them, could find galaxies within the depths of his irises. He’s falling, tumbling into the expression on Cas’ face. His family and friends love him, he knows this, but Cas has a way of stripping Dean down to his barest components, until all that’s left is the sheer pleasure of being _known_. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean finally says. He pretends like he doesn’t notice that Cas’ hand rests on the table just a few inches away from his. 

Something twists in Cas’ face, blink and you miss it flash of emotion before he locks everything back down again. “Hello Dean,” he replies. Melancholy rests in his eyes, the tiny muscles at the corners trying and failing to smile. 

Neither of them break the subsequent silence. Dean swallows down the words that threaten to spill out until he feels bloated with confessions unsaid. If Cas is suffering from the same affliction, he keeps it to himself, but there’s tension in the careful stillness of his hands, the ramrod straightness of his spine and shoulders. 

Dean breaks first because, when it comes to Cas, he always breaks first. “I fucking hate this.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the tabletop, his voice quiet enough to allow Cas to pretend he doesn’t hear him. 

He expects silence, for his words to fall into the same void that swallowed every other overture these past weeks. What he doesn’t expect is the brush of Cas’ fingertip against his knuckles, or a husky voice replying “Me too.” 

Dean dares to cast his eyes up to Cas’ face. 

His breath catches in his throat because, after two weeks, it’s Cas, this close to him. Much as he loves a good session of self-flagellation, Dean isn’t a true masochist. He’s tried to tamp down his feelings, tried to find where his obsession with Cas started so that he could rip it out by the roots. 

But when he looks at Cas, all he can think about are the good times. Cas’ sense of humor, dry as the Sahara. Cas’ kindness. The careful way his hands always moved. The warmth of his body in the bed next to him. His eternal irritation. And the root twists deeper into the bedrock of Dean and he knows that he’s never going to be able to exterminate it, not completely. 

“Maybe not in a strip club,” Dean says, because he’s going to at least pretend like he’s got some standards, “but maybe later we can--” 

“Hey boys!” 

Dean never thought that he would be upset to see strippers, but there’s a first time for everything. The Dean of three years ago rejoices as the well-endowed blonde pushes his chair away from the table and straddles his lap in one smooth motion. The Dean of now wants nothing more than to push her off of him, take Cas, and sprint away from here. God, why had he ever thought that strippers would be a good idea? 

“Look sweetheart, I’m flattered, but there’s no need.” What has his life become, that he’s trying to give the brush off to a very attractive stripper? 

“Not my call.” She sits down low on his lap, her breasts brushing his chest as she arches her back. Heat settles in his crotch and despite everything, arousal curls low in his belly. “The boys over there paid for a dance for you and your friend.” She tosses her head and in the same motion, jerks her chin over to the bar where the Lawyer Squad sits. Brady, one of Sam’s friends from law school, even has the temerity to toast him. 

“I’m Ariel by the way.” If Dean cared, then he would be a little perturbed at how easily she can hold a conversation while dancing with him. Wait a second--friend? 

Dean cranes his head to see around Ariel. He’s met with the sight of another dancer grinding down on Cas, running her hands over his shoulders and chest. Cas’ hair looks more mussed than usual, like someone’s been running their fingers through it. Something hot and possessive twists in Dean’s chest and an involuntary snarl lifts his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” Ariel assures him, clearly misreading the source of Dean’s emotion, “Chastity’s,” and Dean fights the natural urge to roll his eyes (seriously? Chastity?), “going to take good care of him.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Dean mumbles before he can think better of it. No matter. He doesn’t think that he was loud enough to be overheard. Not for the first time in his life, he’s wrong. 

Ariel’s eyes widen just a fraction as she puts two and two together and comes up with four. It certainly can’t be the worst, or the weirdest, thing that she’s ever seen, but a hot lick of shame still nips at Dean’s heels. “That’s fine honey,” Ariel purrs, rolling her hips in a way that would normally have every little bit of Dean standing up and paying attention. “You want him? You want to pretend that it’s him up here?”

Dean’s teeth dig into his lower lip. It doesn’t quite stop the moan but it at least keeps the sound bottled up where it belongs. “I didn’t know that dirty talk was part of the dance,” he says, once he’s confident that his voice won’t wobble embarrassingly. 

Ariel smiles, just shy of filthy, and brushes the back of her fingers down Dean’s cheek. “For you it is.” Her hips roll and she tosses her hair over her shoulder as she looks back to Cas and Chastity. “Just look at them honey. You think he’s thinking about you?”

As if summoned, Cas meets Dean’s eyes. Even through the darkness and bustle of the club, Dean catches how Cas’ teeth catch his lower lip and pull it into his mouth, the clench of Cas’ fingers on the arm of his chair. He can imagine the bob of Cas’ throat as he swallows, the ragged rattle of his exhalations. Jealousy surges in him again as he watches Chastity rotate so that her back is to Cas. 

Dean wants, suddenly and viciously, to take her place. To hover just above Cas’ lap, feel the heat of him through their layers of clothes. He wants to rest his hands on Cas’ shoulders, let them support his weight as he dips down, close enough to touch, but pulling away at the last second. He wants to hear the deep rumble of Cas’ groan, the tiny catch to his breathing when he tries to hide how turned on he is. 

“I think he is,” Ariel confides, low and teasing. “Just look at the way he’s looking at you. He looks like he wants to eat you up. You think he’d dance for you like this?” 

The mental image is good, too good. This time, Dean’s moan is audible, needy, and he can’t even bother to feel ashamed. He’s hard, straining against the zip of his pants, friction and fantasy pumping need through his veins. Ariel smiles. 

“Knew you were different when I came over here,” she confides, her fingertips dancing over Dean’s jaw. “Look at him,” she orders, and, helpless in the face of his own need, Dean obeys. “Look at him watching you.” 

He can’t tear his eyes away from Cas. His breaths come in short little gasps as he watches how Cas’ hands tighten and release on the arms of the chair. Cas is all self-control and denial, and it’s thrilling for Dean to watch that start to crumble. He can see it in the twitch of Cas’ legs, the heave of his chest, up and down, with every breath. 

“You going to go to him after I leave?” Ariel’s breath washes over his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Dean nods helplessly. “Good.” 

The song ends. Ariel steps away, but not before brushing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Good luck,” she whispers, before sauntering away with a cocky smile. 

If Dean wasn’t so goddamn gone on the man sitting opposite him, he’d be in danger of falling in love, just a little bit. 

He’s hard in his pants, the kind of hard that makes thinking almost impossible, the kind of hard that promises pain if it’s not dealt with. He gets up from his chair and pushes past the gathering of lawyers, flinching at their bonhomie and their backslapping. He can feel the heavy weight of Cas’ eyes on his back and his skin thrills with delight. 

The neon bathroom sign acts as a beacon and Dean moves towards it like a thirsting man towards an oasis. His dick throbs in his pants and it’s a struggle to not reach down and mindlessly cup himself and rut against his hand until he comes in his pants like a pre-teen. 

The bathroom is a single stall, little more than a tiny box complete with toilet and sink. Graffiti lines the walls, each set more profane than the last. Dean tries not to touch anything. He hates to think of what’s been done in this bathroom, what exactly makes the soles of his shoes stick to the floor. 

Dean sighs in relief as he thumbs open the button on his pants and eases his zipper down. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, a small damp patch already adorning the material. He shivers as the cool air brushes over him. 

The first touch of his hand is so overwhelmingly _good_ that it makes Dean’s knees wobble. His free hand flies out and slaps against the sink. He holds onto the flimsy structure for support as his fingers stroke and pull, a little too rough, but he can’t stop. 

Blood pounds in his ears, in time with his heartbeat, so loudly that he almost misses the soft knock on the door. Dean squeezes at his cock once more, whimpering at the _toomuch notenough_. 

“Dean.” 

Cas’ voice is quiet but urgency thrums through the simple syllables of his name. Dean whines in the back of his throat. He’s missed hearing his name spoken like a prayer, need and lust wrapped in that dark honey sound. He fumbles for the door. He misses twice before he finally wrenches it open. 

He gets a swift glimpse of Cas, rumpled and needy, before his limbs act without his permission and pull Cas into the bathroom. The door slams shut behind them, the lock snicking into place, and then it’s just a jumble of hands, knees, and mouths. Cas’ fingers twist in the short hairs at the back of his skull, while his hands tug at Cas’ shirt so that he can get his hands on the smooth skin of Cas’ waist. Cas bullies him back against the door and keeps him effortlessly pinned there, one leg easily slotting between Dean’s thighs. 

Dean gasps into the hot, desperate press of Cas’ lips against his. He’s drowning, he’s been drowning ever since he sat across from Cas earlier tonight, or maybe this is him finally coming up for air. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because it’s Cas and it’s been weeks and _god_ \--

“Fuck Cas,” Dean moans when Cas rips away from his mouth to take a breath. Need and desperation flow through him and he hates himself for it, hates himself for clinging to Cas, hates how much he craves Cas’ kiss, hates himself most for how he rasps, “Cas, we need to, we need to talk about--”

Cas presses their lips together, almost brutally, as his hand reaches down to cup Dean roughly through his underwear. “Not now,” he almost snarls, and this is drowning, this is falling, and Dean knows that he’s going to regret this later, but he can’t right now, not when Cas’ fingers are dipping into his underwear and wrapping around him. 

Dean gasps into Cas’ mouth, every single molecule of his skin alight. It’s never been like this between them, breathless and sloppy. Cas always touches him so gently, but now his hands are careless in their urgency, hand just a little too dry to be comfortable, but it’s all so goddamn _good_ that Dean can’t help but pant and buck into his grasp. Cas’ hips rut against his and Dean’s head thunks back against the wall, eyes closing. Cas is a tornado, a tsunami, and Dean’s just along for the ride, balls drawing up tight as his muscles start to tremble. He can’t even speak, Cas’ mouth sealing over his and he tries to warn him, he really does, but he can’t breathe, can’t even move--

Dean’s shout is swallowed by Cas as he comes over Cas’ fingers. He shakes with the force of it, knees threatening to buckle as Cas continues stroking him until he’s whining with the over-stimulation. He’s floating, barely part of his body, but he can still feel Cas’ hips push into his once, twice, before Cas stills with a long, almost pained, groan. 

Dean’s hands remain flat against the wall. They, and the press of Castiel against his body, are the only things keeping Dean upright, his muscles and skeleton having decided to simultaneously take a vacation. He’s still shaking as his brain tries to catch up to everything that just happened. 

His lips are bruised and slick and Dean winces as the tip of his tongue prods at the swell of his lower lip. Cas’ breath is still ragged, one hand still possessively clamped to the dip of Dean’s waist. He knows that he should say _something_ , but his brain refuses to come back online, so all he can do is just lean against the wall and hope that when Cas inevitably moves away, he doesn’t congeal in a small puddle on the ground. 

“Fuck,” he finally rasps, his voice hoarse and used. “Fuck Cas, what was that?”

He’s not complaining by any stretch of the imagination, but when Cas draws back from him, there’s something guilty in the set of his shoulders. Alarms start to flare in Dean’s mind, his post-orgasm haze evaporating in light of his worry. “Don’t,” he warns, because he can feel the way that Cas withdraws, feel the cold start to seep in, even where Cas’ hands are pressed against him. “Cas, don’t.” 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, the tip of his sharp nose pressed into Dean’s neck, and if Dean had a dollar for every time that he heard Cas say those words...Well, he’d have more than one dollar, that’s for damn sure. 

“Don’t be,” Dean says, a little desperately. Hysteria tinges the edge of his voice and for one, dizzying second, all he can think to do is laugh because this--the two of them together in a strip club’s bathroom, Dean’s come still glistening on Cas’ knuckles and an obvious wet spot on the front of Cas’ slacks--this is utterly absurd. “Cas, I’m not sorry, but you have to talk to me, you can’t just disappear--”

“I’m not, I promise,” and from the kiss that Cas presses into his neck Dean could almost believe it. “I shouldn’t have followed you--”

“I’m glad that you did,” Dean interrupts, because even now, as the sweat cools and the scent of sex thick in the air, he still yearns for the press of Cas’ body, the heat of his fingertips like a bullseye on his skin. 

Cas exhales in one long, shaky breath, and Dean shivers as his breath spreads hot over his skin. “Dean,” is all that Cas says, and he turns his name into an enigma. 

Dean moves his arms slowly, telegraphing his every movement. Cas never pulls away and that allows Dean to wrap his arms around the curve of Cas’ waist. It’s like hugging a tree, Cas’ body stiff and unresponsive against his, but Dean doesn’t give up. He holds on tight and waits for the storm to pass. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	18. paint my scars and make me whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a wedding!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter--real life has gotten in the way with a vengeance. But now it's time for a wedding!  
> If you've stuck with me, then I thank you for your dedication.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saturday flies by in a flurry of last-minute organizing. Jess, who up until now had been a bastion of reason, finally realized that she was getting married tomorrow, and had shoved clothes into her suitcase without rhyme or reason. Sam had managed to talk her down from a bout of hysteria over a thick wool coat that wouldn’t fit into the bag ( _Jess sweetie, we’re going to Costa Rica, so you probably won’t need that_ ). Dean had been proud of how well his baby brother was handling the stress until he took a peek in Sam’s bag to find it filled with nothing but underwear. 

“What the hell,” Dean wonders as he dumps the entire underwear section of Walmart out on the bed. “Sam!” 

Sam slinks into the room like a dog who just pissed on the carpet. Dean points at the small mountain of underwear. Sam shuffles his feet uncomfortably. 

“What are you doing with my boxers?” 

“That’s the takeaway you want from this?” Dean gestures to the damning pile. Every time he looks at it, it seems to grow. “So what, you were going to honeymoon as an advertisement for Fruit of the Loom, or were you planning on pissing yourself three times a day, every day?” 

Sam looks offended. “It’s a good idea to pack a few extra pairs, you’re not stupid, you know that--”

“A few extra pairs.” Dean snatches up several boxers and shoves them in Sam’s chest. “Not fifty.” 

So that’s where his brother and his future sister-in-law are, in terms of their mental wellbeing. Dean? Dean is keeping his mental state carefully locked behind a twenty foot wall with barbed wire at the top. He will deal with it after the wedding. 

Cas doesn’t call. Dean periodically checks his phone throughout Saturday, only to find it blank and empty every time. He tries to ignore it. There are plenty of other things to focus on: making sure that his tux is pressed and in its plastic bag, finishing up the last touches on his Best Man speech, putting several outfits in his overnight bag. 

Sam and Jess leave for the venue first. Members of the wedding party will be staying overnight at the venue: a small little farm about an hour outside of Lawrence. It has a picturesque barn, a pond complete with willow trees, a blinding white gazebo, and enough flowers to make colonies of bees happy for centuries. Castiel would be happy. 

Dean drives up to the site Saturday evening, when the sun hangs low in the sky and the clouds are streaked with orange and pink. He follows the gravel drive to a series of cabins. Sam’s monstrosity is parked outside the first one. Several other cars sit outside. Dean recognizes some of the Tool Squad’s cars from the stag party. He drives until he sits outside Cabin Number 13, his home away from home for the next two days. 

Inside, it’s nice, in a rustic sort of way. Nothing special: just a small kitchenette, bathroom and bedroom. Dean throws his duffel on the bed and himself after it. He stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore his phone’s insistent weight in his back pocket. 

So what if Cas jerked him off in the bathroom after two weeks of silence and then didn’t contact him the next day? 

Even his internal monologue reeks of bitterness. Dean flips on the TV and tries to concentrate on some documentary about elephants, but it’s useless. The simmering anger still roils in his stomach, becoming more pronounced the longer Dean thinks about it. 

If he were talking to Missouri then she would tell him that anger is a secondary emotion. Another, deeper emotion lies underneath the surface and anger is just the safe way to express that emotion. Missouri would urge him to think harder about the truth. 

He doesn’t have to think too hard. Last night, Cas had pulled away, with a tiny, regretful half-smile, his thumb brushing over Dean’s chin. He hadn’t said anything as he disappeared into the press of bodies surrounding the stage, leaving Dean weak-kneed in the bathroom, with a damning wet spot on the tails of his shirt. 

Watching Cas walk away was like watching his father pull out of Bobby’s driveway, gravel flying in his wake as the tires spun. It was listening to Lisa tell him _I just don’t think that this is working out Dean_. It’s listening to Sam say that yeah, University of Kansas is a good school, but he already got in at Stanford. It’s every single person that Dean ever thought about loving looking at him and deciding that he’s nothing more than dead weight. 

To love someone is to give them power. For all his life, Dean’s been so damn careful with the love that he doles out, then he met Cas and then suddenly the rules didn’t matter. Now, sitting alone in a cabin, Dean remembers why he had those rules to begin with. 

He sighs and rolls over in the bed. Might as well try and get some sleep before tomorrow. 

 

\--

 

Sunday morning arrives and Dean is too busy to worry about Cas, at least for the moment. He eats a quick breakfast with Sam, Jess, and Jess’ sister Lynn. While the Moores are undeniably typical California fare, they’re reasonably indulgent about their daughter’s choice to move into the middle of the country and have her wedding there. 

Sam and Jess oversee the set-up of the church and pavilion for the reception. Dozens of people run back and forth, setting flowers along the aisles and erecting tables and chairs. Dean notices, with apprehension, the dance floor placed in great prominence under the tent. He just knows that bodes no good for him. 

Jess disappears to get ready and Dean is left alone with Sam, watching as speakers are set up around the tent. “So,” he says, sidling up next to Sam. He can feel the tension coming off in waves from his little brother. “Last chance to do a runner.” 

“Shut up,” Sam says automatically. He sighs and stares straight ahead at the field. “Look, I know that you don’t do so well with the whole touchy-feely thing,” he ignores Dean’s loud moan and soldiers on, “but I just wanted to thank you for everything.” 

“No chick flick moments Sammy, come on,” Dean says in a valiant last attempt to shut his brother up, but Sam steamrollers on, like the Giant Engine that Could. 

“No, I’m serious. Look, if you hadn’t…” Sam’s voice falters and Dean doesn’t know where his brother’s mind went. Through childhood, he did his best to keep Sam sheltered from the worst parts of their lives. “I know that you did more for me than I’ll ever know, and if you hadn’t pushed me to go to Stanford then I never would have met Jess and…” Sam’s voice chokes up. “I owe you for everything.”

Dean would deny to his dying day that he’s getting a little misty-eyed, but thankfully Sam pulls him into a crushing hug. Dean wheezes, but grabs at his brother with the same kind of fervor. “I just can’t believe you’re getting married man,” he chokes out, grinning wildly. “Like, you’re getting married.” 

“Yeah.” Dean can hear the giddy smile in his brother’s voice. “Yeah, I’d noticed.” 

\---

 

Dean’s never felt this shade of happy before. It’s a buoyant, floating feeling, one that carries him into his tux and into the church. He watches the cars pull into the lot and the guests get out. He greets them all with a smile that’s blinding and all the more convincing for its being real. He escorts little old ladies to their seats and they pat his hand and ask when a nice young man like him is going to get snatched up. His smile falters, but he carries on and tells them that he hasn’t met anyone as beautiful as them yet. 

Ellen and Bobby arrive. Dean snaps his jaw shut at the sight of them. He’s not sure which is more surprising: the sight of Ellen in a dress, or Bobby in a suit. He hadn’t been aware that they’d owned either. They’re both beaming ear to ear as Dean escorts them to their front row seats. 

Jo and Charlie arrive together, followed quickly by Benny and Andrea. Dean walks all of them to their seats. All around him are smiles and affection, presses of hands and hugs. Though it’s ridiculous, he has the feeling of reaching the finish line. Like somehow, at the end of the day, someone’s going to close the book and they’ll all get to live our their Happily Ever After. Stupid, but it’s almost impossible to shake the feeling while he’s able to look at his family’s shining faces. 

And then. 

Castiel arrives alone. He stands in the doorway, for once looking hesitant. Like he’s not sure that he won’t be immediately thrown out. He meets Dean’s eyes and Dean’s heart, traitorous little thing that it is, thumps hard against the barrier of his sternum. 

He looks good. In his suit, with his hair tamed into something resembling order, he looks damn good. Dean walks towards him, mouth dry. Cas waits, something hopeful shining in his eyes as Dean comes to a stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” 

Cas’ mouth tweaks in an attempt at a smile, an acknowledgement of the minefields between them. “Hello Dean.” 

They wait. For a wild moment, Dean thinks that the magic of the day might stretch to this, that the atmosphere could reach out and erase their problems in one smooth sweep. But nothing happens, and the sick twisting feeling in Dean’s chest doesn’t go away, no matter how much he might want it to. 

“I can walk you to your seat,” Dean finally says. His voice is rough around the edges. 

Cas nods and they walk the short distance to the pew together. Dean’s fingers are aware of Cas’ hand within perfect holding distance. He doesn’t reach out to bridge the distance between them. 

“Enjoy the ceremony,” Dean says. Castiel pauses, something undefinable shifting behind his eyes. A single pinky hooks around Dean’s thumb, keeping him rooted to the spot. 

“I…” Castiel looks uncertain, his eyes flicking to Dean’s eyes and then back at the ground. He bites at his bottom lip before meeting Dean’s eyes. “You look very nice,” and even though it’s nothing close to what Dean wants to hear, the words still touch something warm inside him. 

“I’ll see you at the reception,” Dean replies, and he shifts his hand so that he holds Cas’s fingers. He gives them a quick squeeze before turning and walking back to the doorway. The whole time, he can feel Cas’ eyes on him. 

\--

It’s like a goddamn dream is what it’s like. 

Standing next to his brother, feeling Sam practically vibrating with excitement, looking out at their assembled family and friends. Hearing the music start and the whole church standing up as one. Jessica walking down the aisle. Her smile is wide enough to darken the sun and its only competition is Sam’s grin. 

Dean’s in a perfect position to see a single tear track its way down Sam’s cheek and he would take this moment to mock his little brother if he weren’t feeling a little misty eyed himself. He didn’t think that humans were permitted to see this much pure joy in a room, didn’t think that it was capable to feel his heart opening and expanding this much. His brother is getting married to the love of his life and Dean’s lucky enough to stand next to him while he does it. 

Sam and Jess never take their eyes off each other through the duration of the ceremony. Sam looks like he’s afraid to blink for fear that the scene will disintegrate before his eyes. Dean can sympathize. He listens through a haze, his heart pumping joy through every beat. When it comes time to give over the rings, he almost fumbles, but he presses the box into Sam’s hands. He wipes away a stray tear with the back of his hand and watches as, with shaking hands, his baby brother slides the thin golden band on Jess’ ring finger. 

When the minister announces that Sam can kiss the bride and Sam leans forward, Dean thinks that his heart might burst. Applause rolls through the small church and Dean claps until his palms ache. Out in the audience, Ellen weeps openly and Bobby’s eyes are suspiciously shiny. Charlie has her face hidden in Jo’s shoulder and Cas...Cas meets his eyes and it’s hope and happiness and regret all twisted in his features and Dean has to look away. 

His cup overflows. 

Even the pictures don’t bother him as much as they should. It’s worth having Garth (why bother spending hundreds of dollars on a professional photographer when Garth was willing to do the job for twenty bucks plus food?) order everyone around just so Dean can witness the soppy smiles that Sam and Jess pass back and forth between each other. 

Dean’s face hurts from smiling, but he can’t stop. He grins into the camera, accepts Garth pressing him and the rest of the groomsmen closer together ( _The angle Dean, it’s going to look great when you collage them all together_ ) because every time he starts to get grumpy or wonder what even the hell this is all for, he’ll hear Sam whisper to Jess “I love you so much” or Jess will say, with newly dawning wonder, “We’re married now!” 

It’s beautiful and it’s perfect and it’s everything that he could have ever hoped for his little brother. 

\---

The reception is held outside underneath a large tent. The wedding party approaches and Dean’s stomach begins rumbling at the smell of food coming from the caterer’s van. Breakfast seems an inordinate amount of time ago. 

“Hope those dancing lessons paid off,” Dean says, before the party is announced. Sam shoves a sharp elbow into his side and Dean laughs, trying not to remember a night in his kitchen, not so long ago, where he watched Cas dance and just for a moment, thought that he could have everything. 

He walks into the tent with Jess’ sister. Everyone claps, which is a little strange, but he’s had worse when he walked into places, so he supposes that he can deal. He doesn’t care for sitting at the front table. The only people there that he knows are Sam, Jess, Ellen, and Bobby. The rest are Jess’ family and friends and the Lawyer Brigade. 

If Dean had his choice he’d be sitting at what Charlie unoriginally termed the Cool Kid’s Table. Cliche perhaps, but at least she gets to sit with Jo, Benny, Andrea, and Cas. As Dean sits down, Charlie even gives him a jaunty wave. Dean smiles and returns it, but even as his hand moves, his eyes pull towards Cas, the compass swinging true north time and time again. 

Today has been beyond perfect. If there is a heaven, and by some miracle, Dean’s allowed in, he’s positive that all his heaven will be is this day playing on a loop because he’s not sure that anything could ever top today. 

But there’s still the awful, niggling feeling, the pea in his mattress, the dissatisfaction that whispers that the only thing that would make today truly incandescent would be if he had someone to share it with. If he could take Cas back to his cabin tonight, pull the blankets over both their bodies and compare their days, if he could undo that tie sitting snug around Cas’ neck...Then he could die happy and never want for anything else. 

With effort, he drags his eyes away from Cas. There’s still too much there for him to acknowledge, seething resentment mingling with clinging need until it’s a toxic stew threatening to bubble over. He doesn’t want that to happen, not today at least. So he stands and puts his pinkies in his mouth and whistles as Sam and Jess enter into the pavilion. Jess ditched her heels for flip-flops and Sam’s hair has regained its autonomy as it flops into his eyes, but one thing remains true: they still only have eyes for each other. 

Dinner and drinks are served. Dean avoids small talk with his table by virtue of always keeping his mouth full. His stomach ends up feeling distended but it’s worth it if he doesn’t have to chat about his hopes for his back-swing. God save him if he ever grows up to be one of those poor sons of bitches who find golf entertaining. 

Then the conversation lulls and all heads turn expectantly towards the front table. Dean’s mouth goes dry and the lump of food he was chewing turns to sawdust. It clogs his throat as he swallows. He knows what’s coming next. The note cards in his pocket are like an anchor weighing him down. 

Jess’ sister does her Maid of Honor speech first. She’s a tiny slip of a thing but she manages to captivate the tent. The audience laughs on command and even Dean falls under her spell. Her speech is tender and touching, remarking on Sam when Jess first met him, when he was little more than a gangly puppy away from his big brother for the first time. She talks about how he and Jess brought each other out of their shells, how they pushed each other to be better and brighter. She talks about their compassion and their courage. By the end of her speech Dean is a little dewy around the eyes, which is still better than Sam, who stares at Jess like she’s the answer to the whole universe. 

Jess’ sister puts down the microphone and sits down to thunderous applause. Dean remains seated for a moment, his fingers clamped around the seat of his chair, before he stands up. He walks to the seemingly innocuous microphone like a man moving towards his execution. 

He hates public speaking in all of its forms. He hates it even more when the prospect of his flopping could ruin Sam’s day. The sweat from his hands dampens the edges of his note cards and Dean casts his eyes down at the table to avoid making eye contact with the crowd. It’s not a big wedding, but he might as well be speaking to Madison Square Garden for how big it feels. 

Dean casts his eyes out into the audience. He doesn’t know precisely what he’s looking for: rotten vegetables or an escape route, but instead he finds Cas’ eyes. He latches onto the familiar face, using it as a lifeboat. 

He’d talked to Cas about the speech, head pillowed on Cas’ thigh as he’d floated ideas. Cas’ fingers had combed through his hair as he listened and laughed, and offered suggestions. Dean had jotted them down, until Cas had decided that he was concentrating too much and done his utmost to distract him. It had been a game after that, Cas’ wandering hands drifting over his stomach and chest, fingers tweaking at his nipples and sides. Dean had alternated between laughing and snarling, twisting his body to escape Cas’ hands. _I have to work on my speech you asshole, Sam’s wedding is like a month away_. Cas had smiled before dipping his head down to slot his mouth over Dean’s and suddenly the speech hadn’t seemed so important. 

Looking at Cas now, Dean somehow knows that they’re both thinking of the same night. Just a regular night, one of dozens, but now the mundane nature shines in Dean’s mind. Cas blinks, slow and confident. His shoulders are relaxed and a faint smile drifts over his face. _You can do this_ , his face seems to say, and because Cas always seems so goddamn sure of everything, Dean doesn’t bother to do anything else other than believe him. 

“Hi,” he says hesitantly. Feedback squeals and he brings the mic farther away from his mouth. “Sorry about that.” He’s sweating in his tux and he fights the urge to fidget. “For those of you that don’t know me, my name’s Dean. I’m Sam’s older brother.” Dean pauses, and then decides to go for broke. Hell with it. “I would say that I’m his big brother, but I’m sure that you all saw me earlier today. I was the guy standing up on a step so that I could be the taller one. First time that’s happened since I was sixteen.” 

A gentle smattering of laughter ripples through the audience. Cas’ smile spreads from his eyes down to his lips. Dean’s mouth mirrors the expression. He can do this. 

“So anyway.” He’s warming up now, like he’s had five beers and it’s Karaoke night at the Roadhouse. “I’m the Best Man and now is my time to give the speech. And I know that I’m supposed to spend five minutes up here and make you laugh, but that’s not the main point of this. The point of this speech is so that I can talk to you about my baby brother and the woman that he’s marrying.” 

A respectful silence descends, with only a few clinks of silverware to disturb the peace. “A lot of people don’t know this, but um, Sam and I, we didn’t have the easiest time as kids.” Dean can feel Sam’s eyes boring into the back of his skull but he doesn’t turn around. If he does then he’ll never get the words out and he needs to say this. 

“We ah, we moved around a lot, so it was hard to get any kind of regular education. And sometimes our Dad would have to leave us while he went off to work a job.” Dean’s carefully tiptoed through the past, hand picking each memory. These are strangers and they don’t deserve the Winchester’s life story, but he has to make them understand. “And before he would leave, he would always tell me the same thing.” For the first time, Dean dares to meet Sam’s eyes as he speaks the words that have governed twenty-four years of his life. “He’d always say ‘Take care of Sammy’. 

And I tried, I really did, but the funny thing about Sam is that he’s great at taking care of himself. He managed to pull straight A’s all through high school and by sixteen he’d already lined up scholarships for college. If you know Sam, you know that his brains are proportional to his body.” Another smattering of laughter. 

“And so, off he went to Stanford. And you know that’s where Sam met Jess.” Dean lifts his glass into the air in a vague sort of toast. “The first time I ever heard of Jess was over Thanksgiving break sophomore year. Sam came home to Kansas and he wouldn’t shut up about this girl that he’d met: smart, funny, hard-working…” Dean pauses for effect before smirking. “Obviously way out of my brother’s league. Then, over Spring Break, he brought Jess home with him for a visit and forget out of Sammy’s league. I was convinced that she’d lost a bet.” 

Dean meets Cas’ eyes again. A tiny smirk sits on his lips and Dean quirks a smile at the sight. The words flow easily and Dean revels in his newfound loquaciousness. 

“It’s been about six years since that day, and Jess...We Winchesters always say that family don’t end in blood. You proved that. You’re one of the best sisters that I could have ever asked for and other than letting him keep that hair, you’ve helped Sam in ways that I can’t even say.” Dean swallows. His chest aches, but it’s not in pain. It’s release and love, what he imagines that parents feel when they see their child move out of the house, get their first job. Get married even. 

“Jess. Sam. I’m not going to stand up here and tell everyone how much you love each other because it’s a waste of words. Anyone who’s ever been in a room with you can tell that. We’re lucky to see it. And, at the end of the day, I’ve only got one thing to say.” Dean turns his back on the audience and looks towards the couple. Instead of Sam, he looks to Jess. 

Her eyes blink quickly but there’s still dampness lingering underneath her lashes. She looks like her heart is breaking and being rebuilt, all in one breath. She looks so goddamn beautiful next to his brother that it makes Dean’s breath catch. 

He smiles, and it’s like flying and falling, ripping and mending. 

“Take care of Sammy.” 

Tears spill down Jess’ face. Sam’s chin wobbles. Heat prickles behind Dean’s eyes as the bride and groom get up from the table and wrap him in their arms. Dean clutches back at Sam, uncaring of the dozens of eyes that must be on them. The sound of applause reaches his ears, but it’s not as important as the tiny, choked sound of Sam’s voice, right in his ear. 

“Thank you. Thank you.” 

 

\---

The reception goes easier after that. The cake appears--a magnificent three-tiered affair with flowers spilling over the sides. Sam and Jess went traditional on their flavor: chocolate with mousse and ganache. It’s no pie, but it’s damn good, Dean reflects, as he watches Sam feed Jess a slice with the delicacy of a heart surgeon. 

After the cake is finished, Sam rises and takes Jess’ hand. He’s still beaming and occasionally he’ll look around at the pavilion like he’s afraid that he’ll wake up from a dream. Dean can understand the feeling. He’s half afraid of the same thing. 

Dean doesn’t recognize the chords of the opening song. Knowing Sam it’s some ridiculous indie rock crap. It’s not important. What’s important is Sam taking Jess’ hand in his giant mitt like he’s holding an egg made of spun glass. What’s important is Jess’ train looped around her wrist, the way that her face shines whenever she looks at Sam. 

It’s also important that, no matter how hard Sam tries, he still looks like the giant version of Pinocchio with his strings freshly cut. Dancing is not, nor will it ever be, his brother’s strong suit. 

At least Jess can make Sam look halfway decent. Ellen has many qualities, but like her younger adopted son, she can’t claim that dancing is one of them. It doesn’t matter though, that the two of them look like a redwood and a sapling lumbering around the dance floor. But somehow, that’s not what Dean notices the most. He notices Ellen’s eyes, the smudge of mascara under her lashes, the unfettered joy in her smile. He notices how Sam clings onto her like how he rarely allowed himself to do when he was a child. 

The song ends and within moments, the dance floor is flooded. Dean skirts around the edges of the wooden floor, ignoring any of the dancing couples. It’s a slow song, something that sounds depressingly like Elton John, and nothing like anything that he would want to dance to. He makes his way to the Cool Kids Table. 

Charlie greets him with a hug so tight that he worries about cracked ribs. Benny claps him on the back while Jo slams her knuckles into his bicep. Dean grins, subtly nurses his bruised body, and wonders why his friends have such a violent way of showing their love and appreciation. 

He doesn’t look at Cas. His emotions are already too close to the surface, too jumbled, for him to try and make sense of them. If there’s one thing that he’s re-learned from Missouri, it’s that he shouldn’t make rash, snap decisions when he can’t make heads or tails of what he’s feeling. 

Castiel seems to sense his reluctance and hangs back. Dean talks to his friends, but always, his eye is drawn towards Cas. He catches Cas looking at him, mirroring, he would expect, his own expressions. Regret, longing, pride, happiness...They all collide between them, so thick that Dean’s surprised anyone manages to breathe around the two of them. 

“Who picked this music?” he asks, as the breezy sounds of the Beach Boys waft through the air. Charlie grins as Jo dramatically raises her hand. 

“I might have had something to do with it.” At Dean’s rolled eyes, she kicks at him, though her legs are somewhat hampered by her dress. “Come on Winchester, you know that you love it.” 

“The Beach Boys? When my teeth rot out from bubblegum pop, you can pay the cost of my dental.” 

“God Dean, no one likes a complainer,” Charlie moans, right before she propels him onto the floor with a well-timed push. 

The moment that his feet hit the wood parquet, Dean tries to wheel around, but he’s kept prisoner by Jo and Charlie. Their hands clamp down on his wrists and force him forward. Caught in their relentless cheer, a smile crosses Dean’s face. It grows once he catches sight of Benny leading Andrea onto the floor, her tiny body dwarfed by his. Sam spins Jess, all awkwardness vanished from his frame as he brings her body in close. 

It might be shitty pop music, but Dean can’t help but listen to the lyrics. 

_God only knows what I’d be without you…_

As Jo urges him into a turn, Dean’s eyes land on Cas. He stands at the edge of the floor, forgotten. When his eyes meet Dean’s, he startles, a quick, embarrassed smile darting across his face. Dozens of pleas rise to Dean’s lips, but before he can voice any of them, Charlie tugs him and he’s whirled around. When he turns back, Cas’ face has settled back into its normal, impenetrable, expression. 

_If you should ever leave me...Though life would still go on believe me...The world would show nothing to me...So what good would living do me?_

The song ends and Dean manages to escape the dance floor. A thin sheet of sweat covers his forehead, and he heads towards the drink table. He downs a glass of ice water, gulping gratefully and relishing the cool liquid. Then, because Sam and Jess decided to blow all of their savings on the reception, he takes advantage of the open bar and grabs three fingers of whiskey. 

He’s just beginning to enjoy the sweet burn aching down his throat when the song changes. Dean tenses as he recognizes the song. “Jo,” he snarls, under his breath, because really? Who the hell put her in charge of the wedding playlist? 

_I can’t fight this feeling any longer…_

Dean takes his drink and walks around the edge of the floor, intent on finding Jo and giving her a piece of his mind. REO Speedwagon is tolerable at bars and at prom, but here at his brother’s wedding? Before he can find Jo, however, he runs into the last person that he wants to see. 

“Hello Dean.” 

To avoid an immediate answer, Dean downs the rest of his drink. It’s strong, stronger than he was expecting, and it’s only due to years of practice at hard drinking that Dean doesn’t choke. He forces a smile through his wince, even though his eyes are a little watery. 

“Hi Cas.” 

They both stand there, looking at everything but the other. Dean can’t forget the last time that they were together--Cas’ lips on his, Cas’ hand dipping into his underwear, the scent and taste and feel of Cas surrounding him. Dean’s skin heats underneath his tux and he desperately wishes for another drink. 

“I recognize this song,” Cas says finally, gesturing vaguely at the speakers.

“It’s a pretty well-known song.” 

“Not to me.” Cas stares at him, with that particular brand of intensity that never fails to make Dean’s blood heat. “But I remember that it was playing that night in the Roadhouse.” 

It takes Dean’s brain a moment to catch up. He’d taken Cas to the Roadhouse after a football game. It was the first time that he’d looked at Cas and thought of him as a friend. It was the first time that he looked at the line of Cas’ back and hips, or noticed the strain of his arms against the fabric of his shirt. It was the first time that he’d looked at Cas and felt a stirring of something other than resentment. 

“It was a long time ago,” Dean says, shuffling uncomfortably. “Can’t believe that you remember it.”

He starts at the feel of Cas’ finger hooking around his. Almost unwillingly, he meets Cas’ eyes. They’re the same arresting shade of blue as he remembers, the kind that slips underneath every piece of armor that he ever created and strips him bare. Cas’ lips part as the tip of his tongue flicks over them. He looks uncertain, like he’s hovering on the edge of something. Then, with a sigh, he tilts his head, and says the kind of thing that topples empires. 

“I remember everything about you Dean.” 

It’s a lancing pain, straight to his chest. It’s the kind of blow that hollows him out and leaves him bleeding. Dean stumbles back, his finger slipping away from Cas’. His hand rubs over his face, almost like he could wipe his memory clean, if only he tried hard enough. 

“You son of a bitch,” he murmurs, a helpless laugh clawing its way out of his throat. “You absolute asshole.”

Cas blinks and looks like he’s been slapped. “I don’t…” He looks like a child, so clueless and betrayed. It takes conscious effort for Dean to not reach out to him. 

“I was…” Dean corrects himself, “I am so angry at you. You pulled a lot of shit Cas and I don’t know...How am I supposed to feel?” His feet, drawn by a force outside his own will, move closer to Cas. “And I was ready to be pissed at you for weeks, for days, and then you come here and you say shit like that to me? How am I supposed to be pissed at you?”

“You have every right to be,” Cas says, voice barely audible over the song. “I can keep on apologizing until I can’t breathe, and it still won’t be enough, but I am sorry.”

“Look can we…” Dean looks around at his closest friends and family. They’re all incandescently happy, their faces glittering with the joy of it all. 

_And I can’t fight this feeling anymore….I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for...It’s time to bring this ship into the shore, and throw away the oars forever..._

“I don’t want to be pissed at you,” Dean confesses. His fingers open and Cas’ hand moves into the space they leave behind. Cas’ hand is warm and dry against his, and when he squeezes, Cas squeezes back. “Especially not today. Can we...can we just hit pause? Can we pretend like everything’s fine?” 

Cas’ grip tightens. Dean watches the line of his throat work as he swallows, and waits for his answer. It’s stupid to hope. Emotions are slippery, tricky bastards and if Dean’s learned anything it’s they it’s impossible to deny them. Still, Cas’ smile is like sunrise breaking over the horizon, and his nod manages to send Dean’s heart soaring. 

“I’d like that,” Cas answers, and it might not still be ok between the two of them, but like this, with Cas’ hand in his, Dean could almost pretend that it is. 

_And if I have to crawl upon the floor and come crashing through your door, baby I can’t fight this feeling anymore…_

\---

Free from the fetters of earlier, Dean throws himself into the celebration. He loses his jacket halfway through the evening, and his necktie loosens until it finally dangles from his collar. Every time he moves the tails of it slap against his chest and neck. 

The playlist doesn’t get any better, but Dean can at least laugh about it now. Besides, it’s difficult, even for him, to be angry while Heaven on Earth plays. He playfully twirls Charlie in circles around him until her hair is frizzy and wild. At that point, Jo pushes him out of the way and takes his place. She and Charlie waltz around, both of them with no sense of rhythm or knowledge of dancing, until they dissolve into giggles. 

Dean throws away his cringing sense of self-deprecation and throws himself into celebrating. He, Benny, and Sam manage to rope Cas and Garth into a facsimile of line dancing to the tune of Electric Avenue, one that leaves all five of them breathless with laughter. Garth wheezes as he tries to snap pictures of Sam and Dean trying to outdo each other, while Benny and Cas move out of the way of their flailing limbs. 

After that, Dean makes another trip to the bar. With two tumblers of whiskey in his hands, he finds Cas sitting at an unoccupied table. He collapses into the seat next to him, nudging Cas’ shoulder with the glass. Cas reaches up to take the glass, his fingers brushing over Dean’s. The touch lingers, as a smile crinkles in the corner of Cas’ eyes. 

“He looks like an idiot,” Dean says, gesturing with his glass to where Sam is out on the floor. From the looks of him, Sam is attempting a tango, or at least something resembling it, but the reality looks a little more like puppet-master gone wild. 

“He looks happy,” Cas corrects. 

Dean slants his eyes over to Cas. Cas’ outfit has become a victim to the heat and prolonged dancing. His waistcoat hangs open at his midriff and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie hanging sloppily from his neck. His hair, so perfectly coiffed, has returned to its normal wildness. Looking at him, Dean’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. 

As if sensing his look, Cas turns to him. Maybe it’s the dancing, maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s something else altogether, but the shine in his eyes makes Dean catch his breath. “I thought your toast was wonderful,” Cas says, and how has Dean ever managed to live without that blend of sincerity in his life? 

When he leans forward to kiss Cas, he’s not thinking of where they are. He’s not thinking of the fact that his closest family and friends are less than twenty feet away from them. He’s not thinking of the weeks of fights and silences, the bitterness and resentment. 

All he’s thinking of is how badly he misses Cas, how much kissing him eases the ache in his heart. 

Their lips meet in a brief, chaste kiss. Dean pulls Cas’ lower lip between his for a brief moment before releasing it with a soft smack. He keeps his eyes closed, shutting out the rest of the world as he presses his forehead against Cas’. His hand rests against the back of Cas’ neck, thumb sweeping over Cas’ cheek. He strokes over the wrinkles in Cas’ cheek, genuine proof of his smile. 

When he finally opens his eyes, all he can see is the fathomless blue of Cas’ eyes. Dean grins, twisting his head and placing a swift kiss on Cas’ lips before he pulls back. 

There’s no way that their friends could have missed it. He and Cas weren’t exactly subtle. But when they stand up from the table and return to the dance floor, hand in hand, no one acts differently. Charlie’s eyes might twinkle a little more than usual, but in this moment, he and Cas are allowed to just be. 

Another song begins and Dean’s head jerks up. He recognizes this one, and unlike most songs, he has fond memories of this song. Cas and Jess, dancing in his kitchen, their heads thrown back in laughter. Dean, watching them both, knowing that if he had a choice, he’d never want anything else other than this. 

From the shine in Cas’ eyes, he recognizes the song as well. 

“Go get your Travolta on,” Dean murmurs in Cas’ ear, shoving him gently in Jess’ direction. Cas turns around, head tilted in confusion. “Go and show everyone your moves,” Dean clarifies, with a kiss placed behind Cas’ ear. 

He pushes Cas forward. After a moment’s deliberation, Cas moves forward. He stops in front of Jess, hand extended. He says something that has her throwing her head back in laughter and she places her hand in Cas’. Dean grins as they take their place on the floor. Cas’ face is set in its customary expression of grim concentration, while Jess’ smile hasn’t dimmed since she first walked down the aisle. 

If seeing Cas and Jess together in his kitchen was awesome, then seeing them on an actual dance floor, where there’s room for them to move is awe inspiring. Cas looks like he’s been auditioning for a spot on Dancing with the Stars while Jess is radiant. Her dress whirls around her in a frothy cloud as Cas spins her. 

He doesn’t realize that Jo is standing next to him until he feels her pressing against his side. On instinct, he lifts up his arm and she settles underneath its weight, the same as she would when they were kids. Dean pulls her close and drops a kiss into her hairline. He never takes his eyes off of Cas. 

“You’ve got it so bad for him,” Jo says, but for once in her life the sardonic tone is missing from her voice. Dean’s arm tightens around Jo’s shoulders, but he doesn’t pull away. “It’s good, you know? It’s good seeing you be this happy.” 

“Shut up,” Dean says automatically, but he pulls Jo in for a one-armed embrace. 

“Who knows?” Jo asks, craning her head to look archly up at him. “If you don’t manage to screw it up, maybe it’ll be you back here in a year or so.” 

“Shut up before I dunk you into the punch bowl,” Dean says, with no heat. All of his warmth is saved for Cas, who looks like a goddamn Disney prince as he dips Jess backward. 

Spontaneous applause breaks out through the tent as Cas pulls Jess back up and kisses her cheek. When he walks back to Dean his face is shining. Dean can’t help but reach out for him and pull him in. He presses his lips to Cas’ hairline, licks the salt of Cas’ sweat from his lips. 

“Were those good enough moves for you?” Cas asks once Dean relinquishes his hold. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice suddenly thick in his throat. “Yeah, they were perfect.” 

 

\--

 

The night descends into merry chaos. Dean dances with Ellen, with Jo, with Charlie, and with Andrea. He eats more cake than he really should, despite the fact that cake is never going to top pie as a dessert choice. He drinks more than he should, but he burns it off almost immediately. He never thought that he would be so amenable to making a fool out of himself, but as Cas moves through his orbit, he finds that it’s easier than he thought. 

Cas is alight like Dean’s never seen him before. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the merriment of the night, but his face splits into a smile more often than not. He manages to coax Ellen into a dance, along with Jo and Charlie, and even, during one song, throws his head back and sings along. His low voice rumbles over the lyrics and sends a chill down Dean’s spine. 

He’s giddy. 

As the night drags on and the dark around the tent deepens, more and more people start to leave. Out of their group, Benny and Andrea leave first. Benny wraps Dean in a bone-crushing hug, clapping Dean on the back with enough force to bruise a lesser man. Even Cas is exposed to the violent sort of love that Benny gives and Dean snickers to see Cas’ eyes bulge as Benny embraces him. Dean watches his friend leave, his arm wrapped tight around Andrea’s waist. 

Ellen and Bobby leave soon after, citing exhaustion as the reason for their departure. Dean isn’t so sure. There’s a glint in Ellen’s eye that he doesn’t trust and he doesn’t want to think about. Bobby claps both him and Cas on the shoulder and Ellen plants a kiss on Dean’s cheek. 

“You take care now,” she says, and while she might just be giving him a vague farewell, the way that her eyes dart between him and Cas make Dean doubt that’s her purpose. 

Jo and Charlie stay a little longer and while they do, Dean lets himself be carefree in a way that feels unfamiliar but welcome. He could get used to this, he thinks, sitting at a table and nursing two fingers of whiskey. He watches Cas lean over and talk to Charlie, his face earnestly urgent as he belabors his point. Charlie hangs onto his every word, ignoring the mess of his hair and the disaster of his tie. Dean knows that he’s no better, his bowtie having long since been sacrificed to the night’s revelries, but it’s amusing to see Cas so informal, so relaxed. 

At eleven, Jo yawns widely before her head falls to Dean’s shoulder. Charlie rouses herself and pats Cas’ knee before standing. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” she says. Dean blinks at her, not fully understanding until Charlie’s hand lands soft on Jo’s shoulder. Jo blinks and lifts her head. When she meets Charlie’s eyes a soft smile lands at the corner of her lips. 

“Come on,” Charlie orders. She holds out her hand and Jo takes it without a second thought. Dean can only watch as they walk away together, Jo’s fingers laced with Charlie’s. 

“Did we miss something?” Cas asks beside him, voicing the question on Dean’s mind. 

“I guess,” Dean says, but instead of feeling irritated or hurt at the omission, all he can feel is a surge of pure joy. Looks like they all might have their chance at a happy ending, after all, why shouldn’t they? Haven’t they lived through enough? Haven’t they done enough? 

By now the audience is sparse. Just a few couples remain, but those that do cling with the determination of a limpet to the dance floor. Sam and Jess are among them, though they appear to have given up the fancy moves in favor of just holding each other and swaying to the music. Sam’s eyes are closed, his head pillowed on top of Jess’. Her arms wrap around his waist and the majority of her face is buried in Sam’s chest. 

Dean’s musings are interrupted by a hand held in front of him. He traces the line of that hand back up to its owner. Cas looks down at Dean. “Dance with me?” he asks. 

Though the words are light, they’re also hesitant. A thin thread of fear runs through Cas’ voice, like he’s not sure if Dean will take him up on the offer. 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. “I’m not…” He’s not good at the kind of dancing that Cas seems to excel at. He’s not graceful. He didn’t have a dance instructor teaching him how to keep time. 

“Come on,” Cas says, gentle but implacable. His hand remains extended. All that’s left up to Dean is whether or not to take it. 

In the end, it was never really any choice at all. 

Cas’ fingers lace with his as they step out onto the floor. “Just don’t dip me or anything,” Dean says. It’s unreasonable to be this nervous, especially since he’s been making a fool of himself all night. But it’s different now. The frenetic pulse of before has faded, to be replaced with a slow, almost nostalgic beat. Cas’ fingers hold his in a gentle grip and his arm winds around Dean’s waist, pulling their bodies close together. 

“I’ve got you,” Cas says, and despite all the shit of weeks prior, Dean believes him. 

_One day I looked up and there you were, like a simple question, looking for an answer…_

His whole life he’s been fighting. Every scrap of respect, of happiness, he’s torn and scraped away and held onto it with the ferocious knowledge of someone who knows what it is to lose. It’s led to Dean becoming inflexible, unyielding. He hasn’t changed that for anyone: not for Lisa, not for Cassie, not even for Sam. 

_I think I know. I think I know...I think I know why the dog howls at the moon. I think I know why the dog howls at the moon._

But now Dean bends. He relaxes and lets Cas guide his steps. With every heartbeat, every step, the tension in Dean’s body releases, until he’s little more than a pile of molecules being held together by the slightest of threads. It’s not important. What’s important is the press of Cas’ chest against his, Cas’ fingers curled around his, Cas’ hand resting hot and heavy on his lower back. 

_I’ve been waiting for you all my life, hoping for a miracle. I’ve been waiting day and night, I burn for you…_

They move with no sense of rhythm or style. Mostly, they sway back and forth. Dean’s eyes drift closed as they continue to move, the stress, sleeplessness, and alcohol taking their toll on his body. The rise and fall of Cas’ chest is like the sweetest lullaby, and if it weren’t for their minute little movements, then Dean would be worried about falling asleep. 

The song changes and Dean lets out a low noise of discontent. “Fucking Jo. Toto?” 

“I like this song,” Cas says, his voice low and rumbly against Dean’s chest. 

Dean tries not to roll his eyes. “You would.” 

“Stop being an assbutt.” 

It’s easier to comply with that order than Dean would have expected. It makes it easier when Cas is humming the melody of the song, seemingly unconsciously. Plus, if Dean drops the resentment, then he can admit to himself that it’s actually not that bad of a song. 

_It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you, there’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do…_

Dean’s head drops until it’s resting against Cas’. He breathes in Cas’ scent: his shampoo, his cologne, his detergent, all of it, until he’s swimming in sensations. Their clasped hands move from their side up to their chests, pressed in the space between their hearts. Cas’ knuckles press into the skin and muscle of Dean’s chest. Dean pulls their bodies tighter together, his hand gripping possessively at Cas’ hip. 

“Cas,” Dean mumbles, his lips moving against the wispy hairs at Cas’ temple. Their feet shuffle around on the floor, but Dean’s given up any pretense of dancing. All he cares about is the warm puff of Cas’ breath on his neck, the brush of his nose against his skin. “Cas,” he says again, like that simple word could encompass the glow in his chest. 

Not for the first time, Dean feels like his body is a paltry container for whatever he’s feeling. The warmth presses against the cage of his ribs, until he’s afraid that they’ll snap under the pressure. No human should be capable of feeling this much. 

The songs wash over Dean. Their lyrics soak into his skin and brain, providing fuel for the heat in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, some of these songwriters experienced half of what he’s feeling. Maybe that’s why Dean resonates with these songs so much. Maybe that’s why he feels like they’re about to rip him two. 

_But I swear by your expression that the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine. That’s the pain that cuts a straight line down through the heart. We call it love…_

“Strange song for a wedding playlist.” 

Dean hums in response. Cas’ voice is almost slurred as he speaks into the fabric of Dean’s shirt. His hand slips from resting at the small of Dean’s back, fingers coming to hook in the waistband of his pants. Every time his nails brush against Dean’s skin, sparks fly through his body. 

Soft violins drift out of the speakers. Dean sighs, fanning the embers in his chest as he glances around the tent. To his surprise, it’s almost deserted; Sam and Jess having disappeared from the festivities. Another couple that Dean doesn’t recognize lingers on the dance floor. Garth is the sole occupant of the tables, his camera a silent observer in front of him. His chin is pillowed on one hand and he looks close to falling asleep. 

“Cas, I think it’s about time we blew this shindig.” 

“All right,” Cas says, his arms still wrapped tight around Dean’s waist. Dean can’t bear to drag himself away from Cas, not even for the amount of time that it would take them to walk out of the pavilion. He remains pressed against Cas, basking in the feel of Cas’ body pressed against his. 

_The book of love has music in it. In fact that’s where music comes from..._

“Sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. His lips drift over Cas’ forehead, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. “Come on.” He’s exhausted beyond words, yet he couldn’t fathom sleeping. He doesn’t want to return to the real world and lose this fragile, gossamer peace. 

“In a moment.” Cas clings tighter to him and Dean melts into him. “Just enough to finish out the song.” 

_And I….I love it when you give me things. And you...You ought to give me wedding rings._

A bright, joyful pain blazes through Dean. He presses his forehead into Cas’ shoulder as he inhales, shaky and feeble. Tears prick at his eyes, and he couldn’t say why. 

_You ought to give me wedding rings._

The last, plaintive strains of the violin die out, but Dean and Cas remain wrapped around each other. Dean’s hand smooths up and down Cas’ back before it travels up to cup the back of his head. “Cas. Come on sweetheart.” 

This time, Cas follows him without complaint. 

 

\--

 

They go back to Dean’s cabin. As far as Dean’s concerned, it’s the only option. Cas had made an aborted attempt to go to his car, but Dean had just tugged on his elbow. “No way in hell you’re able to drive tonight,” was all he’d said. Cas nods in agreement. His eyelids droop and more often than not, his head falls onto Dean’s shoulder. 

Together they stumble their way into the cabin. Dean flicks the lights on as they enter, maneuvering around Cas’ dead weight. The fucker’s gone almost boneless, relying solely on Dean’s arms to keep him upright. Lazy bastard. It’s a relief when they reach the bed. Cas flops backward, sprawling across the mattress. A lazy smile spreads across his face as he regards Dean through his eyelashes. 

“Mr. Milton,” Dean says, taking a step back and examining him with a delighted grin. Cas cracks open an eye at his tone. “You are _drunk_.”

“Not particularly. Just very tired.” 

“Yeah, yeah, pull the other one.” Dean kneels at the foot of the bed, where Cas’ feet dangle off the edge. He works at the laces of Cas’ shoes. His fingers might be clumsier than usual, but they manage to decipher the puzzle of the laces easily enough. He slides both Cas’ shoes and socks off before he gives into temptation and runs a finger up the sole of Cas’ foot. 

Cas jerks at the touch. His foot jerks out in a shallow kick, which Dean easily avoids. He wraps his fingers around Cas’ ankle and leans forward, pressing his cheek into the knob of Cas’ knee. It’s uncomfortable, yet Dean finds comfort there. 

Cas flexes his toes and groans. “God my feet. Why didn’t you tell me to stop while I could still walk?” He rotates his ankle, narrowly missing hitting Dean in the face, and he hisses. “Swear I can see the pain waves traveling into them.” 

Dean hides his smile against Cas’ shin, though there’s no way that Cas could see his face. He trails his fingers down Cas’ bony ankle, ignoring the small shiver shaking through Cas’ body. He takes Cas’ right foot in both of his hands and starts kneading at the arch. A low gravely moan rises from Cas’ throat as Dean’s fingers work over him. Dean shudders at the sound as he switches over to Cas’ other foot. 

Cas’ hand rises off the bedspread and gropes uselessly mid-air. Dean leans forward and sighs as Cas’ fingers start combing through his hair, tugging lightly at the short strands. He moves his fingers further up Cas’ leg, rubbing at the taut muscle of his calf underneath the fabric of Cas’ pants. Another low groan rumbles out from Cas’ chest as Dean’s fingers caress every inch of flesh they can. 

The itch in his fingertips spreads through his skin. It’s not enough, this stilted, aborted contact. He wants more, he _needs_ more, but the uncertainty still lingers between them. Once, he wouldn’t have thought twice about tracing a line with his lips up from Cas’ knee to his hips. But now, he waits, poised in an awkward crouch over Cas’ body. 

Cas blinks slowly at him. The corners of his mouth hint at a smile. Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Cas,” he says. He’s asking for permission--what for, he’s not sure, but he knows that it’s Cas’ to give or withhold. It’s always been Cas. 

He never blinks as his hands fall to Cas’ belt buckle. The hint becomes a guarantee and the corners of Cas’ mouth crinkle with his smile. “Please,” Dean breathes, his fingers already working at the supple leather. 

“You’re getting awfully fresh Winchester.” 

“Feel free to stop me.” 

“I’m tired.” Dean pulls back, only to be stopped by Cas’ hand wrapping around his wrist. “That just means that you’ll have to do all the work.” 

“Lazy,” Dean breathes. His fingers make short work of Cas’ pants and he tugs at the hem until Cas lifts his hips. His pants slide off in a whisper of fabric and Dean licks his lips at the expanse of skin bared to his gaze. 

Cas regards him under heavy-lidded eyes. Underneath Dean’s gaze, he spreads his legs, obviously expecting Dean’s attention there. 

Dean lives to defy expectations. 

He drops back down to his knees and rubs at Cas’ feet again. However, this time he doesn’t stop at Cas’ ankle. He continues to work his way up the hard muscle of the calf, to the ticklish underside of his knee. He strokes over the taut thigh, muscle quivering as Dean’s thumb strokes over the smooth skin. Cas’ chest moves in shallow pants as Dean’s fingers work underneath his boxer briefs. The line of his erection strains against the fabric, showing Cas’ interest in the proceedings. 

“Dean,” Cas pants. His hips make minute thrusts into the air, while his fingers work at the bedspread. “ _Dean_ ,” he whines, as Dean ghosts his nails up and down his thighs. 

Dean might be a tease, but he’s not made of stone. His fingers work at the fastenings of his shirt and pants, and they wind up on the floor along with Cas’ clothes. He presses kiss after sloppy kiss to Cas mouth as his fingers make quick work of the buttons on Cas’ shirt. Cas pants into his mouth, tongue swiping playfully over the seam of Dean’s lip. 

Dean pulls himself away from the hot press of Cas’ mouth. It’s only for a moment as he fumbles through his bag, coming up with a small bottle of lube and a single condom. He tosses them up on the bed next to Cas before he clambers up next to him. Cas greets him with an open-mouthed, biting kiss to the skin of his throat and Dean’s hips grind down into Cas’. 

He loses himself in the slide of skin on skin, the scent and taste of Cas heavy in his head. His fingers twist in Cas’ hair, tugging until he has Cas’ head positioned where he wants it. He drinks in the sound of Cas’ breath, the hitch of his name as he bites over the line of Cas’ shoulder. He clutches at Cas as hands find their way over his chest, down to his waist and hips. 

They grapple on the bed, unable to stop shifting and moving against each other. They end up on their sides, Dean’s chest pressed against Cas’ back. He strokes down Cas’ chest in long, teasing pulls, fingers pausing to tweak at Cas’ nipple. Cas’ head falls backward onto Dean’s shoulder as he shoves his hips backward into eager press of Dean’s cock. 

“God Cas,” Dean whispers. He presses kisses on any inch of exposed skin. Part of him still doesn’t believe his good fortune, is convinced that any moment he’s going to wake up in his bed, cold and alone. His mouth babbles nonsense, fueled by alcohol and proximity, the songs’ promises of eternity still flowing in his head. “Missed this, missed _you_ …” 

Cas turns his head and Dean rises to meet him, their lips colliding at an awkward angle. Dean’s fingers drift down Cas’ chest, down to his stomach, to toy with the waistband of Cas’ boxer briefs. He ignores the shallow thrusts of Cas’ hips as his teeth worry the skin at the junction of Cas’ neck and shoulder. 

“Oh fuck, Dean…” Cas’ voice disintegrates into a thin whine as Dean’s hand closes around his dick, damp from sweat and the steady leak of precome from the slit. 

They’re both wearing too many clothes. It takes Dean too long to pull their boxers down, and it’s an awkward shuffle of bodies, but eventually they’re both bare. Dean’s cock slides into the cleft of Cas’ cheeks, and he bites back a helpless groan. 

It all becomes a blur in Dean’s mind--Cas’ leg, hitched over his, Dean’s slick fingers working in him until Cas is panting against the pillow. One arm reaches back and grabs Dean’s hip, pulling him closer. 

Dean rolls the condom on with slippery, shaking fingers, before he lines himself up. “Cas, please, baby, can I?” 

Cas nods, stubble scratching against Dean’s arm. “God yes,” he rasps, his voice trailing off into a soft whine as Dean begins the slow slide in. 

Cas’ ass, flush against his hips, Cas’ legs tangled with his, his mouth on Cas’ skin, Cas’ knuckles turning white as he grabs the pillows...Dean’s senses are swimming, his brain on overload. He can’t control the noises escaping through his lips as he pours out a continuous stream of babbling. _You give my life direction, you make everything so clear--I’ll be the one you love the most--_

“Fuck Cas, feel so good, god, you’re just…” Like this, Dean can’t move fast or hard, but he makes up for it by carefully angling his hips, making sure to strike Cas’ prostate with every thrust. Cas is a whimpering mess, muscles trembling, breath escaping through his teeth in harsh sobs. 

“Dean, I…” Cas cries out as Dean snaps his hips. He reaches backward, his fingers tangling in Dean’s hair. Sharp pain scrapes through Dean’s scalp, but it blends with the pleasure until Dean’s gasping into the crook of Cas’ neck. “God, I, I can’t…” 

Cas turns his head again, blindly seeking Dean’s lips and Dean meets him halfway. Their lips slide messily together, both of them too pleasure-drunk to worry about coordination. 

“Look so good, feel so good, so fucking good for me,” Dean pants, teeth nipping at Cas’ chin, the bolt of his jaw, any skin that he can reach. Cas whines, eyes clenched shut as Dean thrusts slow and steady into him. “Look at you, fucking take it so good, just fucking look at you Cas…” 

“Please,” Cas whispers, voice wrecked. Dean whines, his hips thrusting faster. His hand grabs Cas’ leg, spreads him wide. 

“Touch yourself,” Dean rasps. “Come on Cas, do it, wanna see you come.” 

Cas whimpers, hand obediently wrapping around his cock and jerking in swift, unsteady motions. He’s close. Dean can tell from the shivers wracking his body, the pitch of his moans. 

“Dean, Dean, I’m going to--want this, want you, oh god, yes please, oh _fuck_ \--” 

Cas’ hand speeds up, moving in a brutal rhythm as he clenches around Dean. With a sharp, choked cry, he comes, stripes of white covering his knuckles. 

“So fucking sexy, you’re so fucking hot….” If Dean lacked control of his mouth before, it’s definitely gone now, with his orgasm rushing towards him with all the care of a runaway train. “Wanted this, wanted you--fucking missed you Cas--” He covers Cas’ neck in a series of open-mouthed kisses, hand smoothing over Cas’ chest. 

Every molecule in him screams for release, but Dean slows his thrusts, aware of the over-stimulated trembling of Cas’ body. He smooths a hand down over Cas’ bicep, down his chest, and nuzzles his face in dark, sweat damp hair. 

“Can I?” he asks, hips still minutely grinding into Cas’ ass. 

Cas twists backward at an awkward angle, mouth sliding over Dean’s in a wet, sloppy kiss. “Do it. Want you to come in me.” To prove his point, he rolls his hips back. Dean’s hand clenches on Cas’ bicep before he carefully rolls, putting Cas on his stomach. 

“Not gonna last,” he warns. His hips move in quick thrusts, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. Below him, Cas’ breath comes in quick, harsh pants. Involuntary, soft cries of pleasure fall from his slack mouth. 

“Need you, need you so much, god Cas, you don’t know, so fucking gorgeous. Could spend all day looking at you...Want you so bad.” Dean’s head falls forward, resting between Cas’ shoulders. He pours everything in him out into that space, empties the swirling bucket of emotion. 

“So fucking perfect, god Cas, I don’t…” Dean’s balls tighten, molten heat pouring through his lower belly into his cock, and he can’t hold on anymore, this is where he’s meant to be, where he’s always been meant to be--

“Fuck Cas, you’re it, you’re all I--need this, need _you_ , god love you, love you so fucking much, Cas baby, I can’t--love you, love you, oh fuck, sweetheart, _Cas_ \--”

To call it an orgasm would be to diminish what rips through Dean’s body. He releases in a burst of white-hot pleasure, but it’s more than that. He stops breathing, can only groan in low, choked off moans against Cas’ skin as his heart stops and then picks up again in double time. With the last cognizant thought, he carefully pulls out of Cas and peels the condom off before he collapses next to him, limbs too weak to hold his weight. 

\--

Dean drifts, for minutes or hours, he’s not certain. He floats through a haze, limbs weighted down and leaden, but soft. He’s never felt so connected to his body and yet, apart from it. He’s aware of every beat of his heart, every pulse of blood that spurts through his veins. 

Eventually, his brain comes back online. “Cas?” He reaches out and brushes over Cas’ chest with numb, tingling fingers.

A hand squeezes his. “I’m here,” Cas answers, his voice low and hoarse. 

Dean pries open his eyes. It takes a moment but eventually his blurry vision sharpens and Cas’ face swims into focus. Still, he squints, unsure if he can trust what he’s seeing. 

“You been crying?”

Cas blinks. Dean wasn’t imagining things: his eyes are shiny and glistening, incongruous in light of recent events. His face is blank for a long moment, but then a small smile darts around his lips. “I’m good,” Cas says.There’s no way that Dean could ever mistrust that voice. “It was just...intense.” 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, a leer in his voice. He tries to lean over Cas’ body, but he’s stopped by Cas rolling over onto his side, putting his back to Dean. 

“I’m tired,” he offers as an explanation, softening his gesture by grabbing Dean’s wrist and pulling it around his waist. 

Dean takes the invitation and presses himself flush against Cas’ back. Their sweat tacky skin sticks together and the sheets reek of sex, but for the first time in weeks, he falls asleep while his heartbeat matches itself to Cas’. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Something’s not right. 

Dean can’t put his finger on it, but the sense of _wrongness_ pervades his waking and continues through the rest of the morning. It nips at the back of his mind and sends his stomach to churning. It turns his breakfast flavorless and his mood snappish. 

Cas sits across from him at the table. He smiles when he should, speaks when spoken to, but it’s empty, like he’s just going through his programmed responses. Something happened, in the time between sleeping and waking, and it changed everything. 

He tries to cling to the memories of the night before, the need in Cas’ kiss, the way that his hands clutched, the wonder in his eyes. The softening of tension in Cas’ muscles, the feel of the baby soft hairs at the nape of his neck brushing against his nose as he fell asleep. 

Cas leaves first, dressed in a wrinkled version of last night’s clothes. Dean reaches out before Cas has a chance to leave, and takes Cas’ wrist in a gentle grip. They’re not under the truce of the night before, and by all rights, Dean should allow himself to be pissed. 

He can’t. 

It all seems so pointless, the fighting and arguing with Cas, the quibbling about the status of their non-relationship. This is what he needs, Cas’ eyes soft in the afternoon sun, his hair hopelessly tangled. 

“Can I come over tonight?” Dean asks. 

Something passes through Cas’ eyes, a shadow underneath the water. It’s there and gone before Dean has a chance to catalog it. “Of course,” Cas answers. There’s no reason for it, but Dean imagines that he can pick up a hint of distraction in Cas’ voice. 

“All right,” Dean says. He pushes everything away, takes that little kernel of _wrong_ and puts it in a box to look at later. “I’ll see you then.” 

He kisses Cas, but it’s off somehow, like kissing someone whose foot is already out the front door. 

\--

Dean tries to wait, he really does, but the promise of Cas is a siren’s lure that he could never be expected to resist. 

He’s proud that he manages to last three hours, long enough to get a shower and a change of clothes, before he packs himself into the Impala. He sends Cas a quick text to expect him and makes the drive across town. 

He gives a quick knock before entering. His heart is already beating a quick tattoo against his ribs, excitement and anxiety warring with each other. “Cas?” he calls, after a quick glance through the living room informs him that Cas isn’t there. 

He remembers the last time he was in Cas’ house. His eyes dart to the dark corners of the room and he slumps in relief when he doesn’t find Anna lurking there. Dealing with Cas is enough. Throw Anna into the mix...Well, Dean’s just grateful that she’s not there. 

Cas appears in the doorway and, with a blow that’s almost physical, the wrong returns. His eyes seem incapable of focusing on any one spot for long, and his attempt at a smile is a quick, nervous thing that doesn’t seem happy to find a home on his face. 

Dean is stupid in the face of Cas, in the pervading sense that everything is not right. All the words that he would say die on the tip of his tongue. Lost for communication, he tries the route that’s always seemed to work for him and Cas. 

He steps forward, covering the room’s span in several long strides. His hands land on Cas’ hips, perhaps presumptuous, but he’ll take that chance. He cranes his head, seeking Cas’ kiss, but before he can make contact, Cas slides out of his hold. Dean’s hands are left cold and empty. 

A chill slithers through Dean’s spine. The wrong spreads and seeps through his skin, pressing against him until he can’t catch his breath. “Cas,” he mumbles, stupid and afraid, “Cas, what’s…”

Cas takes another step backward, putting himself out of Dean’s reach. Those eyes, normally so expressive, are hidden. “Dean,” Cas says, and for once, there’s no universe folded between the letters of his name, “Dean, I’m sorry, but we can’t do this anymore.” 

**_end Part II._**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but also at the same time, not sorry. The angst train is a-coming down the way...
> 
> The songs referenced in this chapter are as follows: 
> 
> God Only Knows-Beach Boys  
> Can't Fight this Feeling-REO Speedwagon  
> Dancing in the Moonlight-Toploader  
> Dela-Johnny Clegg  
> Africa-Toto  
> West Coast-Imagine Dragons  
> The Origin of Love-Hedwig and the Angry Inch  
> The Book of Love-Peter Gabriel


	19. imperfect boys with their perfect ploys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback and a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An apology because this has taken me so long to get out. We're at the middle of final exams at my job and it's just been a wild and wacky time.   
> 2\. A heartfelt thank you to the people who have taken the time to review and leave comments. You've put so much time and effort into reading this story that you've made me want to be a much better writer than I actually am so that I can deserve all your thoughts/analysis.   
> 3\. A lot of you are really angry at Cas at this point. That probably isn't going to change much at least for 2 chapters. Just remember, no one (except for sociopaths, which he ain't) ever intentionally sets out to hurt another person and the road to hell is paved with good intentions.   
> 4\. This story is written entirely from Dean's point of view, with only occasional glimpses into what Cas is thinking. That was absolutely deliberate. You never get the whole story.   
> 5\. Thank you so much and enjoy! <3   
> 6\. P.S.--This chapter does contain references to an explicitly emotionally abusive relationship, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip to the -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- part. <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_**intermezzo ii**_

Castiel is broken. 

He’s known it for years, but it never seemed to matter. Everything worked well enough for him to get by, and he always thought that he was stronger for the breaking. It got to the point where he could go for days, weeks, even months, without ever feeling the scrape of jagged pieces inside him, where he could function almost normally without mourning what he'd lost. 

His father created the first cracks. With the care of a master sculptor, he took a chisel and mallet to the fragile stone of his son, and then left before he could survey the damage. Anna picked up where he left off, more haphazard in her breaking, but devastating nonetheless. Her care, her remorse, her continuing damage...Castiel knew, at the age of fifteen, waking up to find himself alone in Michael's house and Anna long gone, that he would never be whole again.

Michael hadn't commented on his sister's absence. Castiel remembers that, watching his cousin sit at the table. The mug in his hand hadn't wavered for a second when Castiel had told him that Anna was nowhere to be found. He'd blinked, set the cup down, and taken the folded newspaper resting on the corner of the table. "Then you'll have to be the one to keep the corporation afloat," was all Michael had said, before he began the trek back to his room. 

So Castiel supposes that Michael had taken up where his father and Anna left off. 

April had been a mistake. He has the benefit of years to examine every way that he went wrong, and he can see every misstep, in vivid Technicolor. The predatory way that she’d honed in on the lonely boy at the party, the jagged edges of her smile as they’d talked. The way that her eyes never could seem to focus on him for longer than a moment. He likes to think that if he saw those same attributes today that he’d recognize them for the red flag that they are. Then, he was younger and desperate, searching for the smallest thing resembling affection. 

He’d fallen into her body and learned the lines and hidden places of her. His fingers dipped into her heat, his tongue tasted the core of her. He grew drunk on her sighs, and thrilled to feel the trembles racing through her body. She’d clutched him close, lit by nothing more than a few candles around her bed, and when she’d smiled at him, Castiel had dared to let himself hope. 

Then, one morning, he’d woken up to find a knife pressed against the fragile flesh of his chest and April’s fingers wrapped around his throat. 

They’d told him later that April hadn’t been taking her medication for weeks. They’d said that he wasn’t to blame, that there was no way that he could have known, but, bleeding from several shallow cuts on his arms and chest, Castiel had felt the world’s derision upon him. Poor, foolish Castiel, who dreamed of finding love. 

A fissure cracked through him, gaping and empty, and Castiel never tried to fix it. 

After that, he’d thrown himself into his studies. Business was drier than banquet chicken, but he’d attacked his classes with single-minded tenacity, and as a result, he’d risen to the head of the program. His performance was good enough to catch the attention of Dick Roman, graduate student and darling of the Business program.

Dick was...he was like a barracuda among trout: shiny, tantalizing, and unique. Castiel had been breathless at the sight of him, heart pounding in his brittle chest as Dick moved through the rest of his classmates. They scattered before him, gazelles before a lion. It was in front of Castiel that he stopped. 

“Castiel Milton?” he asked. At the sound of his voice, something primal and long-forgotten rose in Castiel’s brain. 

Now, he knows that it was a warning. Then, he’d identified it as pleasure. 

Dick was a whirlwind, a tempest, a swarm. Charming and debonair, he opened doors that Castiel had no idea existed. They seamlessly made the transition from friends to lovers, and within a month, Castiel had taken up residence in Dick's apartment. He offered help on Castiel’s assignments, brought him illegal alcohol, and gave Castiel his version of love like Santa Claus on Christmas morning. 

There were bad times. What relationship didn’t have bad times? Dick was prone to mood swings. Castiel tried to learn how to read them and recognize the signs, but it was difficult when there was no warning. He accepted the blame that Dick laid upon him--he could be annoying and it was certainly an inconvenience when Castiel didn’t do his coursework, especially when Dick had vouched for him with members of the Business faculty. All Castiel could do was apologize until he ran out of words and promise never to do it again, even though he was never sure of what he’d done in the first place. 

Dick’s regard more than made up for any harm that his mood swings might have caused. Basking in his affection, Castiel told him about his father, Anna, the pressures from his family. He confessed, one night, his terror that he would go the same way as his father and Anna. 

“Symptoms normally appear at this age,” he said, fingers running through his hair. A thousand worries battered at the inside of his skull and Castiel thought that he would split apart from it all. “I just...Sometimes I swear I can feel myself slipping, and I don’t want to end up...It’s awful but I can’t imagine not being able to handle everything…”

Dick’s hands ran over his shoulders in soothing circles. “Maybe you are losing it,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear. “Maybe you’ve already lost it. You’ve been stressed for a while.” Castiel whimpered, only to shudder as Dick’s low laugh reverberated through his body. “Castiel, I’m joking. You’ll be fine. The best thing you can do for this is to keep on working.” 

And Castiel, lost for any other solution, did what Dick said. 

Everything seemed to fall by the wayside. Castiel ignored the few friends that he’d managed to make until they eventually stopped calling. He forgot to eat, or found that when he tried, nothing carried a taste. He spent most of his time at Dick’s apartment, and when he wasn’t there, he was in class or the library. He set up his his carrel in the afternoon and stayed long after the sun had set, until his lamp was the only light on the whole floor. 

When he caught glimpses of himself in the mirror, he had to pause. His face was haggard and sunken. His eyes were wild, and dark, bruise-like circles rested under them like a threat. His clothes hung off his frame and he had to tighten his belt by a notch. He noticed the worried looks that his professors gave him and heard their delicately phrased questions. He answered them all, preoccupied with the vague frown Dick had given him early that morning. 

Through everything, Dick never wavered, never faltered. He encouraged even, running his hands over Castiel’s shoulders as he stayed up through the night to finish his work. “Just a little bit more,” he said, leaning down and dropping a brief kiss to Castiel’s neck. “You’ve done so well already.” The only witness to Castiel’s smile had been the paper; by the time he turned around to talk to Dick, he was gone. 

“You’re so brilliant,” Dick said, while Castiel lay on his stomach, his exhausted body trying desperately to claim a few minutes sleep. Dick’s hand rested heavy between Castiel’s shoulders, possessiveness radiating from the touch. “I can’t imagine what you’ll do when you head up the corporation.” Castiel hummed, drifting in and out of the conversation. “Can you imagine how it will be when we merge them?”

Castiel’s eyelids were heavy but there was still something nagging at the back of his mind, something that wasn’t quite right. Before he could put a name to it, however, he was already asleep. 

Just little warnings, but together, they added up into a landslide. 

“Look at you,” Dick murmured. He pressed his thumb into the flesh of Castiel’s lower lip, so hard that his teeth threatened to split the tender skin. On his knees, Castiel blinked up at him, dazed and hovering on the edge of desperate. “You want it so bad.” Castiel whined in response, yearning and terrified. Dick’s fingers twisted in the strands of his hair, tugging Castiel’s head back to bare his vulnerable throat. “No one’s ever going to love you as much as I do, you know that right?” 

Castiel nodded, straining against the relentless hold of Dick’s fingers. He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, but he needed Dick’s smile of approval all the same. It came, like a sword ringing free of a sheath. “I’m the only one who could make you feel like this,” Dick continued, his fingers resting softly on Castiel’s throat. “I’m the only one who would want you. You’ll never love anyone else, right?”

Castiel’s head moved in an aborted jerk, his breath catching in his throat as Dick’s fingers stroked up his neck, chasing the bob of his swallow. “Good,” Dick murmured. “Good boy.” Throughout the night the words were repeated until they sunk deep into the grey matter of his brain. 

_No one’s ever going to love you the way that I do. No one else would want to._

_You’ll never be able to love anyone else._

And Castiel, weak, foolish Castiel, babbled out _yes yes yes_ until he forgot what it was that he was agreeing to. 

It was Gabriel, of all people, who ripped the truth from him, cruel and brutal as only a Milton could be. 

His cousin had business in Chicago and decided, on a whim, to visit. Castiel had only a few hours warning before Gabriel swept into his life, as capricious and mercurial as Castiel remembered. 

“You look like shit,” Gabriel said, holding Castiel at arm’s length. “You were always scrawny but now you’re just gross.” 

“Thanks.” Castiel shifted underneath his cousin’s hold, wincing at the hard press of fingertips into his shoulder. “If you’re done complimenting me, I’m going to be late for class.” 

“Uh-uh. You and I are going out for lunch.” Castiel might have towered over his cousin, but there was something implacable about him when he had his mind set on something. “I find myself in sudden need of calories.” 

“I can’t miss class,” Castiel muttered, his tone petulant as he dragged his feet. “Not for something as stupid as an overpriced lunch. There’s food at the house and Dick’ll be mad…”

Gabriel stopped. The lines of his face turned from sardonic to stone. “Dick. Please tell me that’s just your petname for your boyfriend.” 

Castiel wrinkled his face in confusion. “Dick.” Gabriel’s expression remained unmoved. “Dick Roman?” 

Gabriel’s face underwent a series of expressions before he decided on stony impassivity. “All right.” Gabriel’s touch doesn’t loosen but it does soften somehow. “Come on.” He never lost his temper, not even when Castiel dug his heels into the pavement like a recalcitrant child. Before he knew what had happened, Castiel was packed into the car like so much baggage. 

Gabriel walked into the foyer of Dick’s apartment like he owned the building. His eyes flicked over the decorations, nose wrinkling at the artwork on the walls. Castiel was indignant on Dick’s behalf. 

“Dicky!” Gabriel’s voice echoed through the halls and Castiel winced. Dick would be working. He hated it when people interrupted him while he was working. “Dicky, we’re home!”

True enough, a door slammed in the bowels of the apartment. Within a few seconds, Dick appeared. He never looked anything less than perfect, and now was no exception. Even dressed down, in nothing more than a shirt and slacks, he somehow looked like he was ready for a board meeting. “What the hell--” When saw Gabriel, his expression smoothly shifted from irritation to cool calculation. 

For the first time, Castiel saw the predator behind the charming mask. 

Dick straightened, his hands moving to smooth down a tie that wasn’t there. “Gabriel. I didn’t know that you would be in town.” 

Gabriel’s smirk carried none of its usual humor. “Thought I’d drop in and visit my baby cousin. Imagine my shock when I heard that he was shacking up with you.” 

Warning alarms rang in Castiel’s head. This was not his boyfriend. This was not his cousin. These were two strangers, circling and snapping, and Castiel was the prize between them. 

A cold smile twisted Dick’s handsome face. “Just shows that he has good taste.” 

“That remains to be seen. Personally, I always thought that he was a little stupid when it came to men.” Gabriel tilted his head to regard Dick. “Does he know that you’re only with him because your daddy’s after Milton Corporation?” 

The words didn’t register at first. Castiel had to examine them piecemeal before he could put them back together and glean any kind of meaning from them. In the meantime, Gabriel continued to take a sledgehammer to Castiel’s carefully constructed life. 

“I’m guessing that you didn’t know that about a year ago, Richard Roman Senior made a grab for Milton Corporation.” Gabriel’s eyes never shifted from Dick, even though he spoke to Castiel. “Michael told him he could put his offer where the sun don’t shine, but no one tells a Roman no, am I right?” A wolfish smile spread across Gabriel’s face. “You wanted to do what Daddy couldn’t: buy out Milton Corporation. And the easiest way to do that? Get the future head of the company in your pocket.” 

Castiel tried to inhale, but he couldn’t seem to find enough air. Dozens of little remarks twisted and ripped through his mind, through his heart. Now, with Gabriel’s insight, they seemed like barbed hooks rather than inanities. _Can’t wait until you head up Milton Corp. It’ll be wonderful when we merge. You’re so brilliant, I know that you’ll make the right decision. You trust me, don’t you Castiel? You know that I’m the only one who could help you, right?_

“You,” Castiel said, horror and betrayal sliding cold and sluggish through his body, up his throat, until it was choking him. “You just wanted…” He hated how his voice broke, hated that Gabriel was there to witness his weakness. “You only wanted the company?”

Dick’s face remained still, and for a moment he was still the man that Castiel loved, the man that he’d been ready to spend the rest of his life with. 

Then he smiled and the illusion shattered, and Castiel finally saw the shark behind the man. 

“What else would I want? It’s not like you bring anything else to the table.” Each word twisted in Castiel. “Face it Cas, inheriting that company is the best thing that could ever happen to you. This way you don’t have to rely on your brains to make a living. Bonus,” he said, coming up to pat a patronizing hand against Castiel’s cheek, “you’re pretty enough for arm-candy. You’ll look good on my arm at dinners.” 

“Asshole, that’s my cousin you’re talking about,” Gabriel snapped, a hint of true temper appearing in the bite of his voice. 

Dick’s lip curled, revulsion and superiority battling over his features. Underneath his gaze, Castiel quailed. His intelligence, his humor, his confidence--it all disappeared in the cold steel of Dick’s regard, as he was weighed, and found wanting. 

“Your cousin knows what he wants,” Dick said, casually dismissive. “Isn’t that right Castiel?”

Dozens, hundreds of memories danced through Castiel’s head, all of them guillotined by the sneer winding over Dick’s face. _You’re never going to love someone else like you love me. No one else is ever going to love you like I love you_. 

Something essential broke inside Castiel, splintering along the spiderweb cracks left by April, by Anna, by his father. He felt the loss of it, blinding and agonizing, his dreams of happiness falling into the chasm, the brutal lie exposed to the ugly light of day. He spared a second to mourn for the life he could have led, the person that he could have been, the pieces of himself now irrevocably lost. 

“I’ll have my stuff out by the end of the week.” 

Castiel’s voice was thin and reedy, but it never wavered. 

Gabriel’s hand on his elbow kept him steady as he left the apartment. Castiel was in such a hurry to leave he didn’t even take a change of clothes. He stared out the window on the drive to Gabriel’s hotel, and tried to sort out the thoughts chasing each other around his head. He waited for the tears to come, for the hysterics to start, but there was just...nothing. There was nothing that night as he curled up on the couch in Gabriel’s hotel room, nothing in the morning as he mechanically ate room service breakfast, nothing, nothing, nothing…

He tried to go back to class, but every time he looked at his notes, all he could think of was Dick’s hands, Dick’s smile, Dick’s laugh, and then all he could think of was that it was a lie, it was all a lie. Dick never wanted him, never cared. Numbers twisted into arcane shapes before his eyes, until all he could see was Dick’s mouth splitting like a bear trap. 

Two weeks later, Castiel met with his adviser and completed an official major change form, over her strong objections. “You’ve done so well in your classes, and this means that you’ll have to take summer classes, as well as over 20 credit hours a semester if you want to graduate on time.” Her painted nails rested on the form, as she subtly moved it back towards herself. 

Castiel’s hand landed heavily on the edges of the paper. He filled out the requisite blank spaces and scrawled his name like a declaration at the bottom of the page. 

He was done with that kind of world, the world that would lie, cheat, and destroy lives, just to win something as unimportant as a company. He retreated into the dry tomes of history, where only the dead waited for him. They were long in their graves, and left only their mistakes for Castiel to contemplate. 

And he packed the shattered pieces of himself into a box and placed that box far away, until he barely remembered that it existed. He walked like a man, and he talked like a man, and he did it so well that eventually no one ever suspected that he was broken. 

Meg knew of course, but she was just as broken as he was, if in a different way, and it never seemed to bother her that Castiel wasn’t whole. She took what he could give and asked for little in return and it worked until it didn’t. And Castiel thought that perhaps his ruse was getting better, that maybe he could forget about that open, yawning space inside of him. 

And then he met Dean. And then he kissed Dean. And the chasm opened wide. 

Dean, who is brash, crude, and arrogant. Dean, whose hair trigger temper borders on childish. Dean, who doesn’t hold grudges so much as nurture them into adulthood. Dean, who revels in his coarse edges. 

Dean, who is gentle and kind. Dean, who cares so much about his students that he stays at school long after other teachers have gone home. Dean, who sacrificed his dreams so that his little brother could achieve his. Dean, who touches Castiel like he could be worth something. Like Castiel is something precious. 

Dean, who forces Castiel’s eyes to the worst parts of himself, who shines a light into the shattered, awful parts and rummages around like he belongs there. Dean, who throws the broken pieces into sharp relief, until Castiel can hardly breathe without acknowledging just how much is wrong with him.

It’s torture, being with Dean. It’s wandering for years in a desert, finally finding an oasis, only to discover saltwater within. He _wants_ , with a clear, single-minded purpose that he never has before, and every time Dean touches him it only inflames his want, his _need_. 

He has to stop himself, sometimes, sink his teeth into the tender flesh of his lower lip to stop from blurting out, _You’re the most beautiful thing that I’ve ever seen. I want to wake up every morning with you next to me_. 

But then that creeping, insidious voice slithers through his mind. It taints everything that it touches and turns the sweetest moments black and sour. _No one’s ever going to love you like I love you. You’ll never be able to love anyone else_. 

And he tells himself, over and over again, that Dean isn’t the same, that Dean could never hurt him, would never hurt him, but always, the niggling doubt comes back. It nips at his heels, dogs his dreams, and lurks ever-present in his mind. 

If he could...if he was able to...He’d press kisses like raindrops to every inch of Dean’s skin, count each and every one of his freckles and create constellations out of them. He would whisper devotion into the secret, soft places, the ones that Dean tries so hard to hide. He would look into those summer-green eyes and tell him, _I want to be with you until I’ve forgotten my own name_ , and he’d even mean it. 

Castiel is broken. 

Floating in a haze, he clutches at Dean’s hands, his thigh, his hand, any part of him that he can grab. Dean’s words crash over him until he’s drowning and Castiel gasps. He’s pulled out to sea, and he wants the shore, wants the safety that it brings. Dean moves above him, in him, and Castiel can feel him reaching deeper, his light skirting around the empty place in him where other people have hearts. 

_Love you_ , Dean says, _love you so much_ , and the tsunami crashes over Castiel, tossing him asunder until he can’t find the shore. 

He lays there after, pinned under the heavy weight of Dean’s arms. Dean is plastered against his back, his face pressed into the nape of Castiel’s neck. His ragged breath stirs Castiel’s hair with every pant. Castiel’s fairly certain that Dean is barely cognizant, floating on a sea of endorphins, but even barely conscious, Dean’s lips still press feather light kisses to the knob of his spine. 

He is the most precious thing that Castiel will ever touch. 

Castiel will destroy him. 

Dean says that he loves him, but Castiel is both unlovable and incapable of loving. He is broken, the important parts of him shattered and lost, and he can’t be what Dean wants, what Dean _needs_ , what Dean _deserves_. 

He manages to drive himself home without a major accident. Once there, he peels off last night’s clothes, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to the fabric. Castiel’s stomach clenches and he throws them in the general direction of his hamper, knowing all the while that there’s no way that he could ever wear them again. Dean’s hands on his pants, on the buttons of his shirt…

He’s known for a while that this is it, that Dean is _It_ for him, but he'd foolishly thought that he was the only one who felt that way. He’d been reckless, cruel. He thought that if he toed the line and set up enough rules, that he could keep himself and Dean safe, but he failed. Just like he fails at everything he tries. 

Castiel is broken, and eventually, everything he touches breaks as well. 

He manages to make it to the toilet before his stomach finally makes good on its threats. He retches until there’s nothing left in him, retches until tears spring to his eyes from the sour bile scorching up his throat. He wants, god, he _wants_ …

With a shaking hand, he flushes the toilet. He takes a shower, turns the water on scalding until his skin stings with it. He dresses, and wanders aimlessly around his house. He knows that Dean will come, and when he does, he knows what he has to do. 

On his kitchen counter, sits a letter. Castiel knows the contents of this letter well. He'd been biding his time to tell Dean the contents of it as well as the rest of the letters and emails scattered through his house. He hasn't found the courage yet, the stress of the past weeks of loneliness and uncertainty pushing down on him. Now, with that gone, Castiel finds that he doesn't possess the skill to try and frame his explanation. The letter weighs on him, as does his decision, and while he tells himself that it’s for the greater good, it’s for his family, for Anna, he recognizes the words for what they are. Just another bundle of lies, piled onto the multitude of falsities that compromise his life. 

His phone buzzes. Dean is on his way. 

Castiel allows himself one wild moment of regret, of imagination. What would it be like if Dean came into the house and Castiel greeted him with open arms? What if he tried to give Dean everything that his puny, broken soul could spare? What if he threw away the rules and tried to make a life with Dean? 

One moment, and then Castiel dismantles the fantasy and packs it away in the box along with all his other regrets and pains. He needs to do this, needs to cut Dean loose so that he has the chance to be happy. Castiel is poison, he is ruination, and ultimately, he destroys everything beautiful that he touches. 

He knows that he will hurt Dean, but it’s better this way. 

_No one’s ever going to love you like I love you....You’re never going to be able to love anyone else_. 

The door opens. 

And Castiel is afraid. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

For a moment, Dean’s sure that he’s heard wrong. Then he thinks that Cas might be playing one of the worst jokes in history on him. 

But then he looks at Cas’ face and the truth sinks into him like the worst kind of poison. 

“The fuck?” he finally rasps. His heart, trapped behind his ribs, beats a frantic rhythm. He hadn’t expected this. In a thousand years, he hadn’t expected this. He’d said ‘pause’ last night, because he’d known that there was a ton of shit that they had to work through, but he’d thought...He’d hoped…

_Love you, god, love you so much_ …

Dean’s heart plummets to his knees. 

The only part of this whole wretched endeavor that gives him the slightest satisfaction is the fact that Castiel looks as destroyed as Dean feels. Cas’ eyes fix on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder as he says, “I think you’ll agree it’s for the best. We don’t...It’s obvious that I can’t give you what you need--”

“I need you,” Dean says, because he’s apparently skipped nonchalant and gone straight for desperate. 

“No you don’t. Trust me, you’ll be so much better off without me.” 

“Isn’t that for me to decide?”

Cas’ jaw sets in that particular way that means that no power on this earth can sway him from his chosen course of action. “No. Not when it involves me as well.” 

Dean laughs, the barely submerged bitterness roiling up in his stomach. “Yeah. Because it’s all about what you want, isn’t it?”

That seems to shake Castiel. At least, he blinks, and his gaze returns to Dean for a moment. “What?”

Dean’s lip curls. “This whole time, it’s always been about what you want. Every single time, I’ve done what you wanted. It’s always been about what you want, what you need--”

Castiel’s jaw twitches. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. You’ll be much better off without me.” 

“And you made that decision, just like that? Last night didn’t have anything to do with it?” Castiel flinches, and Dean knows that he’s struck a soft spot. He weighs his next words for a brief moment and then decides, what the hell. Might as well go for broke. “It was about what I said, wasn’t it?”

It’s not much, but Cas’ eye twitches the slightest amount. It convinces Dean that he’s lying when he too quickly replies, “No.” 

“Right.” Dean swallows. His chest feels like it’s ripping in half. Every dream, every hope, everything he’d wanted...torn up right in front of him. And he still...Fuck, what’s _wrong_ with him, that all he wants to do is to go to Cas, wrap his arms around him, and beg him to reconsider? What the fuck happened to him? Without thinking, Dean spits out the word clattering around in his skull.

“Coward.” 

Castiel reacts like Dean reached out and slapped him. The hateful, spiteful part of Dean, the one that John Winchester nursed into a hungry monster, roars in satisfaction. He presses his advantage, using the stress and pain of the last weeks, using his betrayal and hurt to fuel his words. He’s like a man possessed, but he doesn’t regret it, not for a second. 

“Coward,” he says again, relishing the word, savoring Castiel’s flinch. “Every time, something looks like it's going to be hard or not work out, you run.” He sees Castiel’s mouth getting ready to open, and speaks before Cas has a chance to. “And if you’re trying for another apology you can shove it up your ass.” 

Castiel’s jaw shuts with an audible click. He tilts his head, a hint of ice sweeping across his features. “What do you want me to say?”

“How about the real reason you’re doing this? I figure you owe me that much.” 

What Dean doesn’t say is that if Castiel gives him a reason then perhaps he can change his mind. At the very least, if he has a concrete reason then perhaps he’ll be able to sleep at night. 

“‘If one of us stays stop, then we stop’.” Castiel’s voice is inflection-less, his face impassive. “That’s what you said, the first time we ever talked about it. And now I’m saying stop.” 

“You have to give me a reason. You owe me that.” It makes him sound like a broken record, but Dean needs this. How could he do everything that he did, how could he show Cas with lips, and hands, and words that he’s wanted, that he’s _loved_ , and still end up like this?

Castiel’s chest moves as he breathes, and the muscle at the corner of his jaw is working overtime. “Why do you need to know so badly? What good would it possibly do?” 

The gentleness in his voice undoes Dean, tears at the fraying threads of his control, so that Dean snaps, “Because I never thought you’d say stop!” 

He feels sick, feels like he might vomit, but he continues because he can’t stop himself, “Because I thought that everything between us was good, I thought that we were good--” He has to stop and take a breath, a pain that isn’t quite physical and isn’t quite imaginary, ripping at his innards. “I thought that you wanted to, to be with--” 

He can’t finish the thought.

When he looks back at Castiel’s face, the first thing that he sees is that at least Castiel has deigned to look at him. The second thing he sees is the pity on Castiel’s face. That sight sparks a rage inside him, a rage the likes that he only ever saw on his father’s face. 

“I told you that I didn’t want a relationship,” Castiel says, but Dean can barely hear him over the thrumming of blood in his ears, the pulse that, for the first time in Castiel’s presence, beats _rage rage rage_ instead of _love love love_. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve got some bad news for you,” Dean says. His mouth feels unwieldy, his voice thick and choked. “If it looks like a relationship, and feels like a relationship, then it’s a _fucking relationship_!” Castiel takes a step back, mouth falling open slightly, though whether that’s from the words or the anger, Dean isn’t sure. “You stupid son of a bitch, what did you think we were doing for these past months? What did you think this was?”

If he were more in control of himself, Dean might be pleased at the look on Castiel’s face. Or ashamed. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t have to, because he isn’t in control of himself. Not right now. 

“Whatever it was,” Castiel begins, the words sounding like they’re being dragged out of him, like each syllable causes him pain to utter, “it’s over now. We can go back to being--”

“So help me god Cas, if you say friends, then I’m going to kick your ass.” 

Castiel shuts his mouth. His stupid eyes are wide, and where Dean used to be able to read a novel in the irises, now they’re a mystery. He wants to kiss him. He wants to punch him. He wants, he _wants_ \--

He can’t do this. He puts his back to Castiel, turns and focuses on the bland pattern of his kitchen counter. It’s there that he sees it: a letter with the Northwestern logo on it, addressed to Castiel. It’s printed on creamy stationary and despite himself, Dean tugs at it. 

He reads the first lines, his heart stuttering as he continues. 

_To: Dr. Castiel Milton_

_We were pleased to hear about your interest in the associate professorship in our Department. After reviewing your credentials, as well as the enclosed articles, we are proud to offer you the position of Associate Professor for the upcoming academic year. This is a tenure track position--_

Wordless, Dean turns around to look at Castiel. At first, Castiel looks confused at the naked betrayal writ clear on Dean’s face. Then, his eyes drop to the letter, and his expression settles into resigned understanding. 

The understanding is the final blow. There's no chance that he’s misreading the situation. 

“Dean, I promise, I can explain, this isn’t what it looks like--” Castiel’s voice is frantic now, for the first time, and Dean finds himself cold. The wall inside him, which Castiel had so skillfully dismantled, flies back together, sets firm and strong. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Dean’s voice could freeze continents, and Castiel’s protests stop before he has a chance to voice them. He looks down at the letter, scanning over its contents. There’s no way to misinterpret the wording. “All this time.” The letter is dated a week ago. “You were applying for jobs, fuck, you got a new job, and you never told me?” He remembers, with a jolt, the afternoon he met Anna, and how Castiel was dressed. He’d thought it was strange but it makes so much more sense now. He was going to job interviews. Lying through his teeth. “This whole fucking time you were lying to me.”

He can feel something dying in him, something that was bright and new. He hates Castiel for slaughtering it. 

“Eight hours away.” Dean looks down at the letter and runs his thumb over the embossed letterhead. A disbelieving laugh blurts out of his mouth. “Fucking _eight hours_ away and you were just going to what? Disappear one day? Let me try to figure out what happened?”

“Dean, please, you don’t understand. I had to, it’s...Michael, he cut off--”

Dean slaps the letter down on the counter, his hand blocking the damning words from his eyes. “Goddammit Cas, that just makes it worse!” He remembers a conversation, from a lifetime ago, Cas saying that after he'd switched his major and gotten his Ph.D in history Michael had pressured him to go into university teaching. He remembers asking Cas if he ever missed academia. _No_ , Cas had said, shrugging the question away. 

Was he planning this, even then? 

Did Dean ever know him at all? 

“So what, Michael snaps his fingers, and you come running, like always? Because of money?” Righteous wrath bubbles thick in Dean’s throat and he couldn’t stop himself now, even if he wanted to. “You've always been happy to take handouts from Michael before; I don't know why I thought you'd stop now.” 

A series of emotions cross Castiel’s face. “Is that what you really think?” There’s a warning in the smooth tone, but Dean ignores it. He’s willing to pit his tempest against Castiel’s stone--He’s seen storms knock entire concrete jungles into the dirt. 

Dean’s sneer is a cruel, vicious thing. “You know what I think?” He makes sure to meet Castiel’s eyes, makes sure to put as much venom into the words as possible so there’s no doubt later. If Castiel was the first to kill what was between them then Dean will at least make sure that it stays dead. 

“I think that you’re too afraid to stand up to your family and tell them to fuck off. I think you’re so desperate for their money that you’re willing to bend over and let Michael do whatever the fuck he wants to do, as long as you get your payout.” Castiel’s face is pale and bloodless, but Dean continues, spurred on by a giddy rage that isn’t wholly his. “I think that you’re a selfish son of a bitch who doesn’t care about what you do to other people as long as you get what you’re after. I think that you’re going to end up miserable and alone because _no one_ is ever going to be able to love you.” 

At that Castiel draws in a sharp breath, like Dean’s hit him. In any other life, it would make Dean stop, but not here, not now. “I think that you’re just a fucking user, and you get everything you can out of someone before you move on. I think that you’re a goddamn liar. Honest to god, I think there’s something broken in you.” 

By the time he finishes, both he and Castiel are breathing heavily, like they’ve just finished sprinting a marathon. Dean hurts, in a way that he knows will ache tomorrow, but right now it just feels so damn good. 

Castiel swallows, tongue flicking out over his lips. “Is that really what you think?” He sounds almost hesitant, like he wants Dean to reconsider. Stupid, cruel, hateful son of a bitch. 

Dean shoves the letter, proof of everything he just said, in Castiel’s face, close enough to make him go cross-eyed. “You tell me _Cas_.” He sneers the nickname, throws it in Castiel’s face like it’s garbage. “It looks clear enough from here.” 

“You don’t understand, if you’d just let me explain--” Castiel’s hand makes a grab for the letter. His fingertips brush Dean’s wrist, before Dean jerks back. Castiel lunges forward, but Dean shoves a hard hand into the center of his chest. The force of the shove sends Castiel stumbling backwards, his back hitting the wall with a strong enough impact to send the air rushing from Castiel’s lungs in a soft huff of air. 

They examine each other, Castiel against the wall, Dean in the center of the kitchen, with the damn letter still in his hand. 

How did they get to this point?

“I thought,” Dean begins, before he stops. What’s the point? He thought Cas was happy. He thought that they’d finally managed to work past all of their issues, that they could lay their problems to rest. He’d thought that maybe he would get the chance to be happy. 

He should have known better. God damn it all, but he should have known better. 

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is soft, urgent. Like he knows that his time is running out. “Please. Please listen to me. I can explain, I can tell you everything, please just give me the chance--” 

But for the first time since September, Dean isn’t willing to listen. His heart is cold, blocked away. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel again. 

“No,” he says, soft. Final. “You and me...we’re done.” Cas tries to speak again, a meaningless slur of syllables, but Dean cuts him off with a sharp look. “We’re done.” 

He turns away from Castiel, leaves him in that kitchen. That kitchen where he dropped to his knees just so that he could nip at the jut of Cas’ hipbones. The kitchen where he made Cas breakfast weekend after weekend. The kitchen that he decorated for Christmas, where he watched Cas gaze at his handiwork in wide-eyed wonder. The kitchen where he’d looked at Cas and thought for the first time, _I love him_. 

He still loves him. Buried underneath the anger, the betrayal, the hurt, even the hate--Dean still loves him. And it makes him sick. 

Dean walks out the house and goes to his car. He sits for a moment, breathes. Eight months. Eight months it took to craft a friendship, a goddamned _relationship_ , and it took less than twenty minutes to destroy it. 

He rests his head on the steering wheel, lets his fingers drift over the familiar contours of the Impala’s seats. He inhales once, twice, a third time, before he lifts his head, starts the car, and heads for home. 

So it goes. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Inside his house, for the first time since he was a child, Castiel begins to cry.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	20. don't think i didn't deserve what i lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of sadness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who are still riding the angst train, hang on. We're still going strong. But congratulations, because the angst train does finally pull in at the Happy Ending station! 
> 
> so yay?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

This time, Dean makes the appointment. 

He calls Missouri when he gets home and though he doesn’t say that it’s urgent, she books him for tomorrow afternoon. Dean thanks her, hangs up, and finds his way to the closest bottle of Johnny Walker Black. He drinks straight from the bottle until he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. 

Tuesday passes in a haze. Dean walks, and he talks, and he hopes that in the space of the day he doesn’t say anything to embarrass himself. He catches the looks that Claire, Kevin, and Patience send back and forth to each other, but none of them approach him. It’s for the best. Dean doesn’t know what he would say if someone asked him if he were all right. 

He dreads having to see Castiel. Thankfully, Castiel seems to feel the same way and his day passes unmolested. He even manages to escape Charlie, Benny, and Jo. 

By the time the afternoon crawls in, Dean is almost out of his mind. He can’t stop thinking about it, any of it: Cas’ smile, his touch, the way that his hands grasped and clutched at Dean. The fervency of his kiss, the way that he would look at Dean, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

Cas can lie to himself, he can even lie to Dean, but not about that. He _cared_ , Dean knows it. 

So why? 

Missouri waits for him in her office. Dean walks in like a man condemned. When she looks at him her face betrays nothing except polite concern. “Have a seat,” she invites, calm as an afternoon tea. Dean obeys. What else would he do? “Now, you sounded a mite upset when you called.” Dean blinks, swallows hard. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

Dean inhales, unsteady and unsure. Now that he’s here, there seems to be something grabbing his tongue, twisting around his chest. It keeps him from speaking, keeps him from breathing. “Dean,” Missouri says, patient and timeless, “there was a reason that you wanted to see me so badly. I can’t help you unless you tell me what it is.” 

Dean’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Cas, on his back in the cabin, Cas, pulling him down, Cas asleep next to him, mouth gone slack, Cas’ hand over his heart--

“It’s Cas,” Dean blurts out, and something settles over Missouri’s face like she already knew what he was going to say. 

“Start at the beginning,” she says, so Dean does. 

\--

He leaves a few things out--not the important bits, just the R-rated ones. Missouri is a therapist, and has probably dealt with worse, but Dean’s not entirely comfortable spilling the details of his sex life to someone who reminds him uncomfortably of how he imagines a grandmother would act like. So he paints a blurry watercolor for her and quickly moves on. 

He covers everything: their meeting four years ago, their rivalry, being told by Adler that he needs to co-coach the Scholastic Bowl. How he thawed towards Castiel. How he and Castiel became friends. How Castiel integrated himself in Dean’s life until there wasn’t a day that Dean didn’t talk to him or text him. 

Falling in love. How scary it felt. How thrilling. Castiel’s ultimatum: no relationships, and Dean’s counter-offer of a non-relationship. How Dean pushed away his doubts in the sheer thrill of finally getting to be with Castiel. His father dying. Castiel coming over that night. Their subsequent fight. The nightmare of the weeks afterwards. The strip club. The wedding. The night of the wedding. And then Monday afternoon, going over to Castiel’s house, heart in hand, only to have Castiel reject him. 

“And that’s pretty much it,” Dean finishes. Missouri doesn’t say anything, just taps her pen against the legal pad in her lap. He looks down at his sleeve and worries at a dangling thread. Missouri still hasn’t spoken. “I guess you could say that’s a problem that’s been on my mind recently.” 

Missouri caps her pen and sets it down on the table next to her. It’s a careful movement, and Dean can’t help but think of a trainer approaching a skittish animal. It’s an apt comparison: Dean is one inch away from sprinting away. 

“Dean,” she finally asks, clasping her hands on one of her folded knees. “I want you to try to answer one question for me.” She pauses. “Why do you think that Castiel ended your agreement?”

The question is a suckerpunch right to his stomach, except Dean doesn’t even have the excuse of a blow to absolve him from the pathetic gasp that slips through his lips. “You don’t waste any time,” Dean says, once he regains the power of speech. He grins at Missouri, hoping against hope that he can deflect away from the question. 

It doesn’t work. He doesn’t know why he thought that it might--Missouri’s been putting up with his crap for years and he still hasn’t managed to pull one over on her yet. And he’s not going to manage it this time either: she just stares at him, impassive and Sphinx-like, waiting for an answer. 

“Why did Cas end it? I don’t know.” Dean’s foot starts thumping against the thick rug. “I guess because he’s an asshole?” He shrugs, tugging at the loose thread on his sleeve. “Because he’s moving eight hours away and didn’t want to leave any loose ends?”

The corners of Missouri’s mouth turn down ever so slightly. “Let me tell you want I think,” and yes, that is indeed why Dean is paying her, so she can tell him what she thinks. “I think that you want me to tell you why Castiel ended this relationship between the two of you because then you don’t have to think about any of the real reasons that Castiel might have broken it off. You want to know the reason because then there’s maybe a chance that you can fix whatever it was that made Castiel want to leave in the first place.” 

Dean’s face twists in a scowl as he glares at Missouri. “Well, can you do that?” he asks, voice brusque. 

“Why did Castiel end the agreement between the two of you?”

She’s not budging from this point and Dean knows from experience that they'll spend long minutes here until he just gives up and answers her question. 

Why did Castiel end the agreement? 

Dean’s first answer is still probably the closest to the truth: Castiel Milton is an asshole. But then he does what Missouri wants him to do: thinks carefully about the last 24 hours, about the minutes and hours leading up to Castiel standing in his kitchen and telling Dean “I’m sorry, but we can’t do this anymore.” 

“I told him that I loved him,” Dean finally says, shame coating his voice. “I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out, but it was the first time that I’d ever said it. And after that, he was just...he was different.” Dean looks down at his hands and examines his knuckles more closely than he ever has in his life. “I just...When I was with Lisa her complaint was that I wasn’t open enough. Why is it that the first time I tell Cas that I love him...Why wasn’t that enough?” A dreadful pause follows those words. It allows Dean just enough time to hate himself for how pathetic he sounds. 

“Interesting that you mention being open.” Missouri picks her pen back up. “Do you think that you were open with Castiel?” 

“Yes.” The answer comes automatically. Dean talked to Cas about everything: his mom, his dad, Sam, the Impala...everything that happened in Dean’s life, Castiel got to hear. “I told him...I told him shit that I’d never told anyone else, stuff that I’ve never said outside of here.”

“But did you ever tell him about your feelings?”

She’s steering towards a point, and Dean’s almost certain that he’s not going to like the destination. He can’t see a version of this story where he’s not the wronged party, but damn it all if Missouri isn’t going to try and twist the narrative into some equality bullshit. 

“I did not,” Dean answers, feeling his way around the trap. 

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want him to know.” Missouri’s eyes narrow and Dean drops his gaze back down to his sleeve. Underneath his attentions, the thread has gone exponentially longer. 

“If you were open with him, then why wouldn’t you tell him about your feelings? Why didn’t you want him to know?” 

“Because I was afraid that he’d call it quits if he knew!” Dean snaps. “Which obviously, considering what happened, was a pretty rational fear.” 

Missouri taps her pen against her fingers. “So you based your entire relationship on a lie, because you were afraid that Castiel would leave if he knew the truth.” 

Dean swallows the lump rising in his throat. It feels like razor blades. “Yes,” he whispers. 

“You might love him,” Missouri begins, and her use of the present tense does not go unnoticed, “but any relationship based on falsehood is inherently unhealthy.”

“So you’re saying that this is my fault?” Dean meets Missouri’s eyes. “I’m the one who was wrong?”

“Stop thinking of this in terms of right and wrong. The goal is to understand your decisions. You need to learn to recognize flawed thinking patterns to avoid falling into this situation again.” 

“Well that’s easy. I just won’t ever try having another relationship. Problem solved.” 

He was being glib, but as soon as the words come out of his mouth, a tiny, pleased smile darts over Missouri’s face. Dean feels the jaws of the trap snap shut. 

“You were making a point there,” he guesses. “I was supposed to relate that comment to Cas.”

“Did it work?” 

Dean shrugs. “I can understand the sentiment, but.” He clenches and releases his jaw. “You’re never going to convince me that what he did was justified.” 

“And I’m not going to try to. If I were his therapist then I would be working with him, trying to figure out why he thought that was the best course of action. But you’re here now, and we need to work through this, because right now, you are not able to function. You are so desperate to throw yourself back into a relationship that was unstable and dysfunctional, and we need to get to the root of why that is. So why were you convinced that Castiel would leave if you told him the truth of your feelings?”

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I went over this. He’d said before that he didn’t do relationships. The only way that I could convince him to be with me was to tell him that we would just be friends with benefits.” Said aloud, it sounds worse than Dean expected. 

“So for months, you were lying to him.” 

“I’m sorry, I thought we said that we were going to make this not my fault?” Dean wants to get up and storm out. It’s only respect for Missouri that keeps his ass in the seat. “Yes, I lied. And if you’re trying to make this a thing where I got what I deserved, then sure, I guess I did. But you can’t look at me and tell me that what he did wasn’t fucked up!”

He carefully grips his thighs. He can feel the tremors running through his muscles and for a wild moment, he thinks that he might be sick. 

“Dean, all this anger you’re feeling...Some of it’s towards Castiel, but I think you know that some of it is directed towards yourself. You know that what happened wasn’t right. From what you’ve said, you already realize that you entered into a relationship where you gave away most of your agency. You made every move based on what you thought Castiel wanted, or what Castiel said. But what concerns me the most is that you still can’t tell me why.” 

Dean’s throat works. Saliva floods his mouth and he tries to force back the hint of stomach acid rising. “Because it was worth it if that was the only way that I could be with him. I love him,” he says, and it’s the most shameful thing that he’s ever had to admit. 

The kindness in Missouri’s eyes is damning. “I’ve no doubt that you do. But knowing what you know now, feeling what you do, would you still enter into a relationship with him?” Dean’s chest aches. He doesn’t answer. “And that is what I find most worrying, the fact that you cannot tell me that you wouldn't rush back into what you know is an unsustainable relationship. I’m a cognitive behavioral therapist. My job is to help you recognize unhealthy thinking processes and determine how to best break them.”

Missouri leans forward. “You might have loved him. And though I don’t like to make guesses, from what you’ve told me, I believe that he cared about you. Perhaps he even loved you. But we need to get you to a point where you can recognize that even though you care for someone and they care for you, the relationship is unhealthy.”

Dean tries not to hyperventilate as Missouri, with exquisite precision, places the last nails in the coffin of his and Castiel’s relationship. “Any person who requires you to withhold parts of yourself in order to maintain a relationship is toxic. If you cannot be honest with them, then the relationship is toxic. Relationships thrive on trust and communication, and if you cannot have those then your relationship is toxic. If you are always bending to someone else’s wills and wishes while denying your own--”

“The relationship is toxic?” Dean guesses. 

“I am sorry that you are feeling the pain for your relationship ending. But until you understand what you truly want, then you will never have the chance to be happy in your relationships. Your ideal partner will celebrate you, not want to hide you. Our job, in these upcoming weeks, is to change your pattern of thinking, to recognize when someone is violating your boundaries and to reassert your idea of your own worth.”

Dean might as well be eighteen again, for as big as he feels. “What if,” he starts, only to stop. “What if I never find someone that I like as much as him?” 

Missouri’s smile is sad, sympathetic. “Right now, you feel like this. And I’m not psychic. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen in your future. What I can do, is teach you to recognize people who will cause you to fall into unhealthy thought patterns, and to value yourself in terms of relationships.” 

Though she never says the words, Dean understands the sentiment well enough. 

If there was ever any hope for him and Castiel working out, then it’s all but nonexistent now. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Missouri has homework for him. Every day, Dean has to find something worthy of love in himself. Supposedly, this will teach him to value himself. It just feels awkward, like he’s trying to come up with the worst kind of dating profile. 

After a week he has seven items: 

_Funny_  
Great taste in music  
Cool car  
Good cook  
Can fix your car  
Decently well read  
Good taste in movies 

Missouri raises her eyebrows when she sees his list. “This is a good start,” she says, in a tone which implies that it’s anything but. “But what else?”

“These are great things.” His defense of himself is half-hearted at best. If Cas knew all these things about him, then why wasn’t it enough to convince him to stay? 

“These are superficial things. Anyone can have a cool car. But what about the care that you put into maintaining it? That is a quality worthy of love.” 

Missouri smiles, like she knows what an impossible task she’s set him. Qualities worthy of love. Right. 

Under Missouri’s watchful eye, Dean comes up with a new list. 

_Good friend_  
Generous  
Intelligent  
Good older brother  
Caring  
Trustworthy  
Forgiving 

“Forgiving?” Missouri asks. Dean nods and doesn’t answer. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The month of May passes him by in snapshots of sadness. 

It takes Dean days to put a name to the empty, gnawing feeling at the back of his mind. He finally recognizes it when he plates his dinner and looks at the leftovers in the skillet. _That’s Cas’ food_ , he thinks, and that’s when it hits him. 

Cas won’t come over for dinner ever again. 

Dean swallows back the instinctive urge to vomit and heaves out a shuddering breath before his hand sweeps out in a convulsive movement. The plate crashes to the floor and shatters. Food splatters over the linoleum and cabinets, and Dean grips the counter until his knuckles ache as he tries to remember how to breathe. It used to be such a simple thing, in and out, but now his lungs don’t want to cooperate, and everything pushes against him—Cas’ grin, the slow slide of his arms around Dean’s waist, lazy, half-awake kisses over breakfast, dinners that Dean was planning to cook for them both—

“Fuck,” Dean says, too loud for the silence of the kitchen. “Fuck,” he says again, quieter, once he thinks that he won’t shatter. 

He cleans up the remnants of the meal, as well as the broken shards of the plate. He keeps his mind carefully blank as he does so. What else is there for him to do? 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Sam is still gone on his honeymoon, removing Dean’s number one confidante from the board. For one reckless moment, Dean considers calling him, but then he comes to his senses. Even if he could get their schedules to sync up long enough for a Skype call, there’s no way in hell that he would consider ruining this time for his brother. Sam’s been through enough. He deserves this. He’s earned this. 

Once upon a time, when he was feeling this miserable, he would have told Cas all about it, but that ship has sailed, fallen off the edge of the earth, and lives on now only in memory. 

Fortunately, Dean is luckier than he’s ever earned the right to be, and his friends are just about the best people in existence. 

Charlie comes over on Thursday night. At first, she is all sly smiles and innuendo, having no doubt come to the same conclusion that Dean himself had: he and Cas were now an official couple and congratulations would be accepted through the end of the week. She bounces in, bubbly and enthusiastic, and it takes almost more strength of will than Dean possesses to tell her the truth. 

Charlie’s smile disappears, replaced by horrified confusion and worse, a wretched sympathy. Dean stutters to a halt, his jaw clenching around any other incriminating sentiments. He’s said the basics: he and Cas had something, Dean thought it was one thing, and Cas had thought another. In the end, Cas left. Isn’t that enough? Charlie saves him from saying anything else, as her arms wrap tightly around his midsection and squeeze until tiny spots dance in the corners of his vision. 

After that, Charlie goes into what Dean affectionately terms her ‘damage control’ mode. Her face takes on a look of cheerful determination as she makes it her mission to salvage at least a little happiness. The two of them gorge on an unpleasant mixture of brownies and beer, until Dean’s stomach curdles in dismay. They end the night sprawled on the couch, Dean looking in the direction of the bathroom while Star Trek plays in the background. 

More than a little buzzed, Dean’s mouth starts moving without his permission. “I thought that we were happy. I thought that…” He’s not quite drunk enough to spill out the next words: I thought that Cas actually cared about me. “I don’t know where I went wrong,” he finishes. 

“Oh honey,” Charlie sighs. Her fingers pat his forehead. “It’s possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That’s not weakness. That’s life.” 

Dean’s smile struggles to make it onto his face, but once it’s there, it stays, despite the prickle and burn behind his eyes. “Did you just Captain Picard me?” he asks. His voice barely wobbles. 

Charlie’s knuckles tap against his face. “It seemed reasonable.” She waits for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice lacks its normal, cheery tone. “But you know that you didn’t do anything wrong, right?”

“Sure. I did everything perfectly. That’s why Cas is moving eight hours away. Because I was so awesome.” 

“Look, I don’t know why it fell apart. But I do know that you can’t fool people into falling in love with you. All you can do is be yourself, and if they don’t like that, then screw them.” Charlie’s hand grabs his. “You’re still the best handmaiden that I know.” 

Dean squeezes her hand. Charlie doesn’t say anything else on the topic and leaves soon after. Long after she’s gone, Dean replays her words in his head. _You can’t fool people into falling in love with you_. She meant well, he knows, but the words still scrape at the back of his mind. All through their time together, Dean hadn’t tried to hide any part of him, save the one that was desperately in love with Cas. He’d been the truest version of himself that he could have been, and Castiel had looked at his offering and made the decision that it wasn’t enough. 

Dean curses as he rolls onto his side and thumps his pillow twice. He shoves his face into the fabric and resigns himself to a long, sleepless night. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

“We should go on a road trip,” Dean says one day during lunch. Charlie stops slurping her noodles and Benny lowers his phone. “I mean it, we should each pick a place and go there over the summer.” 

With less than two full weeks of school, Dean’s mind has turned to plans for the upcoming vacation. He needs the break but he also dreads the drudgery of the empty weeks. For the past few weeks he’s been able to throw himself into his job and escape the relentless grind of his brain. 

Charlie and Benny have been doing their best to keep his mind occupied. Charlie spends countless hours on his couch, organizing Moondoor campaigns, while Benny makes use of his grill. Dean looks at his friends, moving in his house, through his space, and feels a visceral surge of thankfulness burn through him. These are his people, here for him in his hour of need. 

It makes their refusals all the more surprising. 

“I’m going to have to beg off,” Benny says with a regretful smile. “Andrea wants to visit the family down in Shreveport.” He shudders. “Trust me, I’d rather be with you. Louisiana in the summer? I’ll be lucky if I don't sweat off twenty pounds.” 

Disappointed, Dean turns towards Charlie, who meets his gaze with a rueful smile. “I think I’m going to have to say no on this one.” She looks down at her noodles and smiles, big and broad. “Jo and I had plans.”

Dean can’t help the surge of envy and disappointment which pulses through him. That shy, hopeful smile, the one that promises secrets and futures...That was his. It might have been stolen and false, but for a few months it had been his. The tiny, petty part of him hates that Charlie gets to experience something which is impossible for him. 

Then he shakes himself and stops being a terrible person. This is his sister and his best friend and if Dean can’t have that brand of happiness then they should at least find it. 

“You and Jo, huh?” He asks, nudging Charlie with his elbow. “When were you going to tell us?”

“Wanted to make sure that there was something to tell first. But yeah. It’s good.” Charlie is uncharacteristically shy, which tells Dean more than anything else how serious this is for her. 

“All right, well you two losers are out, guess I’ll just…” Dean’s voice tapers off as the door to the teachers lounge opens. 

He and Castiel meet each other’s eyes and the temperature in the room drops by twenty degrees. Charlie and Benny fall silent, both of them suddenly fascinated with the food sitting in front of them. 

The food in his mouth turns sour and Dean swallows it down. He’s been lucky so far, but it had to happen eventually. He still hasn't broken eye contact with Castiel and to do so at this point would be to admit weakness. 

“Cassie love, did you get the—“ Any other time, Dean would be pleased at how Balthazar’s voice vanishes, but now he can only feel the snarl of possessive rage as the Limey Prick steps closer to Castiel. One hand wraps around Castiel’s arm, just above his elbow, and tugs. Dean wants to get up out of his seat and slap that hand away, but it’s not his place anymore to even think that way. Castiel made that abundantly clear. 

Dean should say something. What would he even say? He remembers what he said the last time he spoke to Castiel, the hate and vitriol that spewed from his mouth. Judging from the deer in the headlights look on Castiel’s face, he remembers as well. Dean wants to apologize, tell him that none of that was true, that he could never think those things. He also knows to say that would be a lie. 

So he remains silent and stares Castiel down until he grabs at a few utensils and leaves. Balthazar’s hand lands on Castiel’s lower back and Dean entertains a swift fantasy about breaking his douchey fingers. Then they’re gone, leaving Dean, Charlie, and Benny alone. 

Benny whistles, low and long. “Well if that wasn’t awkward as all hell.” His light blue eyes look at Dean in concern. “You all right brother?” 

Dean deliberately releases the tension in his jaw. “Yeah,” he says, shoving some food in his mouth. It tastes like ashes. 

“Yeah, I’m awesome.” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Sam and Jess return from their honeymoon, identical grins on their bronzed faces. Dean picks them up at the airport and accepts their bone-crushing hugs. Sam holds on a little too long and thumps Dean on the back one too many times to be completely normal. Dean accepts the embrace and understands what it means: one of his friends, the rat bastards, told Sam about him and Cas. Thankfully, Jess manages to keep the conversation light and breezy, though she does almost cause the car to crash several times as she shoves her phone into Dean’s face, showing him pictures of beaches, foliage, and local wildlife. 

Dean curses at her and shoves her away, though he does have to admit: the sea turtles are cute. 

When they arrive at Sam’s house, Jess gets out of the car, after planting a swift kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Missed you,” she says, then heads towards the door, rolling her shoulders as she goes. In the late afternoon sunlight, her ring gleams. 

Sam stays behind. Dean was afraid of this. He contemplates running after Jess and using her as a barrier to stop all of Sam’s feelings, but he ultimately gives up on the idea. Best to face the music now and spare Sam the trouble of coming up with increasingly complex scenarios to get him on his own. 

“How are you, though? Really?” Sam’s voice is tentative and even though he was expecting the question, Dean still isn’t ready for the little gut punch of pain that it brings. 

“Weeping into my Ben and Jerry’s every night,” he snarks. Next to him, Sam looms. He’s impressively good at it. 

“Seriously. I know you Dean. You were a damn wreck after Lisa and you didn’t--” Sam stops before finishes the sentence, but Dean can guess what he was going to say. _You didn’t care as much about Lisa as you did Cas_. It’s the truth. Dean doesn’t know why that makes his skin crawl. 

“Look, even if I were upset, which I’m not, because I’m a goddamn adult and I’m capable of handling my emotions, it wouldn’t matter. It’s over and done with and talking about it isn’t going to fix anything.”

Sam’s face works like he wants to say something. Knowing Sam, there's a whole slew of things he could say. His little brother’s always had a knack for the emotional side, always seen suffering and tried to correct it. He’s protected Dean as much as Dean’s protected him, and Dean knows that it must be ripping Sam apart to see a problem and not have any solution in sight. 

But Dean knows that he was right. No matter how much Sam might want to, there’s no fixing this. Bad things happen and when they do, all that’s left is to pick up the pieces and carry on. 

Sam’s face twists and contorts before it settles into resigned acceptance. As much as Dean wants this conversation to be over, his stomach still twists uncomfortably at seeing that expression on Sam’s face. 

“I’ve got to say, this isn’t how I saw you two ending.” 

“Yeah?” Dean grunts. He should leave it at that; he really should, but curiosity killed the cat first and the Dean Winchester right after that. “How’d you see it ending then?”

Sam smiles at that, a horrible defeated thing that crosses his face like a shadow. It’s every unspoken apology and spurned forgiveness rolled into one, and the sheer regret and futility of the expression twists Dean’s heart in his chest. 

“I didn’t,” is all Sam says. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

The rest of the school year passes in a blur. Dean’s sorry for it: Claire, Patience, Kevin, Krissy, and Alex are a good group of kids and he’ll miss them next year. He knows that he’s done them a disservice this past month by not being one hundred percent, and that’s just something else that he can torture himself with when it looks like he might actually get a full night’s sleep for once. Thankfully, his students show him more mercy than he would ever show himself, and don’t comment on his spaciness, or the way that he flinches when they talk about possible reasons why Mr. Milton’s leaving the school. 

They’re kind. It’s more than Dean deserves. 

Adler, however, is not kind. Dean already knew this, but it’s brought home to him in the worst way possible the last week of school. 

He’s taken to staying after as long as he can, until streaks of purple and pink fill the sky. It helps him to be at work and to stay away from his house. The memories don’t cling to his classroom like they do his apartment. Here, he can work with a semi-clear head. 

Adler doesn’t announce himself when he enters. The first hint that Dean has of his presence is a low, rasping cough that somehow manages to sound sardonic. He jumps back in his chair, heart racing, until he sees Adler standing in front of his desk, bald pate gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. 

“Warn a guy,” Dean says, rubbing idly at his chest. “Sir,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Zachariah’s smile is an insidious thing. It reminds Dean of mold and rotten vegetation gathering just beneath the surface. Adler smiles like other people threaten, and Dean has never felt comfortable around this man, not even once. 

“Glad to see that you’re so focused. Have to get those grades in, am I right?”

Dean nods, not trusting his own words. He’s trying to slide around this conversation, examining all angles until he finds Adler’s. It’s impossible that the man doesn’t have an ulterior motive; that’s not how he operates.

“Usually how it is at the end of the year,” he replies, tapping his pen against his laptop. Adler says nothing as he rocks back and forth on his heels. Dean lets the pause linger as long as he can, but the silence grates on him. “Was there something that I could help you with?”

Zachariah’s smile widens and Dean tries to ignore the feeling that he’s just stepped into a trap. “I was coming around to the various coaches and sponsors and making sure that they would still be interested in continuing their activities for next year.” It’s a perfectly plausible excuse to be in Dean’s room, so why the alarms? “I assume that you’ll still want to coach the Scholastic Bowl?”

Dean’s stomach twists in an interesting knot. In the midst of everything else, he hadn’t even bothered to think about the activity that brought him and Cas together in the first place. He doesn’t have a good reason to say no. But the thought of being alone in Scholastic Bowl, when he can so easily remember Cas’ low mumble as he says the answers, when he can almost hear the subtle crack of plastic as Cas chews on another pen cap…

“Of course I can. You know, I kind of enjoyed it this year.” 

Dean tries to plaster a cocky grin on his face, but the angle’s wrong and the muscles of his face won’t cooperate. It keeps sliding and shifting, until it resembles a grimace more than a smile. 

“Of course, you’ll be working alone next year unless we can find you another volunteer. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Mr. Milton is leaving us at the end of the year.” 

Tiny alarm bells begin to ring in Dean’s head. They accompany the involuntary flinch of pain which always coincides with the mention of Castiel’s imminent departure. Dean schools his expression into one of vague concern, but from the gleam in Adler’s eyes, he knows that it’s too late. 

“Heard that rumor. Can’t say that I’m too surprised.” He’s proud that his voice comes out cool and disinterested and not seething with the bitterness that lurks just under the surface. 

“More than a rumor.” Adler’s voice is pleasant enough, but something lurks beneath its surface that Dean instinctively distrusts. “No, after seven years, the siren call of collegiate life has become too strong for him to resist. What’s strange is that, in his interview, he gave us repeated assurances that higher education held no interest for him.”

Dean fights the natural reaction to bluster or snap. He thinks of Cas' stoicism and the particular set of his jaw when he’s angry. He fashions his expression into that and gives Adler nothing to sink his claws into.

“Well, it’s been seven years. I guess that people are allowed to change their minds.” Dean fakes a nonchalance which he’s nowhere close to feeling and stretches. “Not to try and hurry you out, but why bring this up with me? Much as I love to be included in the gossip train, I don’t think that what Milton does is any of my business.”

A soft wrench of pain moves through his chest and curls through the empty, ragged places in him. It’s not his business what Castiel does, not his business to think about Castiel returning to microwave dinners and takeout because he doesn’t have Dean to cook for him anymore. Not his business to wonder about Castiel packing up his house, putting his books into carefully labeled boxes. Not his business to think about Castiel’s house and Castiel’s classroom, empty and echoing. Castiel moving away, finding new friends. Years passing and Dean fading away in Cas’ memory. 

Dean forcibly yanks his mind away from those thoughts, but it’s too late. Something of what he was thinking must have shown up on his face, because Zachariah’s eyes are fixed on his face like the secrets of the world are writ in the faint wrinkles on his forehead. 

Zachariah Adler has never liked him. Dean knew that from the first interview he had at Lawrence High School. Naomi Goddard was never going to win any prizes for “Warm and Cuddly”, but at least she had been objective while she read over his credentials. Adler had sat next to her, the sneer plastered over his face like it was a permanent fixture. Dean hadn’t known then what he’d done to piss the man off. Four years later, he still doesn’t know what founded the man’s contempt of him. 

But he doubts that Adler’s dislike is fading anytime soon. 

Adler’s lip curls, revealing the disgust and anger that’s been simmering beneath for the duration of the conversation. “I think that what Milton does is very much your business, Dean Winchester. Don’t think that I’ve been ignorant of what you two have been doing all year long.”

Dean’s heart lurches, his pulse beating a terrified rhythm. How did Zachariah...He and Cas _never_ , not at school--They were always careful, never went out of the bounds of propriety...What’s this going to do to his career, and oh god _Cas_ , what’s going to happen to him? Dean’s lungs constrict as they forget their original purpose of helping him breathe. In a stroke of luck, he glances at Zachariah’s face. His expression is satisfied, but there’s more. It’s almost...searching. 

_He doesn’t know_ , Dean realizes with a shock of relief. _He’s just fishing_.

Dean forces a scoff out of his mouth. “Well, we’ve been coaching the Scholastic Bowl together, since you volun-told me that I was going to have to. We did our Capstone projects together. Maybe you saw the presentation last week?” That had been a hellish night, having to stand next to Cas and pretend, in front of students, administration, and parents, that everything was fine between the two of them. The whole night Dean had been excruciatingly aware of how close Cas was standing to him, electric sparks lighting up his skin every time they accidentally touched. “I’m not sure what else you could be talking about.” 

If Dean squinted, he's sure that he could see smoke start rising from Adler's ears. “Snark and laugh all you want to Winchester. You’ve managed to lose the best faculty member Lawrence High had. Do you know how that’s going to affect interest in creating new programs? Community involvement?” Zachariah’s head shines with righteous fury. “You’re a dime a dozen Winchester; you’re nothing special. And you can rest assured, I will find a way to take this out of your--” Before Dean has enough leverage to make sure that he never works in a school system again, Adler remembers himself. With obvious effort, he clenches his jaw and stops before he gives Dean enough ammunition for a harassment case to knock the whole county on its ass. “Trust me when I say that life is going to be very unpleasant for you next year.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Dean says. Later, he’ll worry about his boss’ clear antipathy to him, and the fact that Adler can indeed make his life miserable if he so chooses. But for now, Dean’s blood rises with a heat that he hasn’t felt in weeks, not since Sam’s wedding. He’s always felt better when he has an opponent in front of him, when the fight has clearly defined parameters. 

Adler leaves his room. Without his presence, Dean collapses into his desk chair, his legs weak. Now that there’s no need for bravado, he can acknowledge the churning anxiety in his stomach. Yet another thing that he can blame on Castiel. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Graduation arrives one Saturday morning. Dean arrives early, shivering in the chill as the sun pokes its face above the horizon. He greets the students who are already there, acknowledging their excitement and nervousness. The grin on his face, is for once, completely natural, as he congratulates them. 

He remembers his high school graduation, the sense of accomplishment and unreality following him throughout the ceremony. His hand had been clammy when he’d shaken the principal’s hand and accepted the diploma cover. All the while, he’d been convinced that someone was going to jump on stage and pull him off, kicking and screaming. He’d felt like he was living someone else’s life. This couldn’t possibly be right. He was never supposed to graduate high school. 

His father hadn’t come. Dean tried not be surprised, but the disappointment was still there, the only cloud in an otherwise spotless day. Bobby and Ellen had made up for it though, cheering and whistling as he walked across the stage, all thoughts of decorum gone in their pride for him. And Sam had been in the audience as well, his grin effervescent as he whooped in glee. 

Dean holds onto that feeling, that memory, throughout the morning. It becomes harder when Castiel arrives. As another senior sponsor, he’s there with Dean organizing the seniors in preparation for the procession. 

Dean keeps their interactions minimal. When he’s forced to talk to Castiel, he’s as short as possible, choosing to communicate mostly in forms of grunts and monosyllabic replies. He turns away before he can focus too intently on the tiny flinch in Castiel’s eyes, the quick bob of his throat as Dean dismisses him. 

Dean pushes it to the back of his mind. This is his kids’ day. They deserve his undivided attention. 

They have it through the ceremony. He stands and claps. It’s a struggle to keep his applause professional (when Alex crosses the stage he has to restrain the urge to shout at the top of his lungs; it was doubtful whether or not she’d make it to this point), but he does so, mindful that the eyes of parents and administration are on him. From his spot on the stage, Zachariah smiles unpleasantly at him every time their eyes meet. Dean’s stomach drops every time he accidentally looks at Cas, his eyes lingering on his stole and hood proudly displaying Northwestern’s colors. 

He hopes, with a pathetic, bitter desire, that at least Cas is happy. He hopes that Cas suffers, hopes that he can’t sleep at night. 

After the ceremony, Dean weaves through the families and faculty to the Impala. The rising heat is starting to make sweat bead along the edges of his hairline, and he’s been with people too long already today. He needs the silence of his house. 

His hand is on the door handle when he hears the one voice that has the power to bring him to his knees. 

“Dean.” 

Cursing the elderly couple who had held him up (seriously, could grandma and grandpa have taken tinier steps?), Dean’s fist clenches on the handle before he turns around. 

It’s the first time that he’s taken a good look at Castiel in weeks. He notes, with a surge of twisted satisfaction, that the polished veneer of his appearance has finally cracked. His hair, the stubble coating his jaw, the wrinkles in his shirt and pants, the exhaustion crouching in the corners of his eyes...Castiel looks like he’s had a rough few weeks. 

And Dean wants to be angry. He wants to reignite the flames that fueled him through the confrontation several weeks ago and allowed him to walk away without looking back. He wants to crush Cas, leave him so shattered that he’ll never be able to reassemble the pieces. 

He wants all of that but he’s just...He’s so goddamn _tired_. He goes to sleep with his body aching from the abuses of the day, and when he wakes up, he still hurts from the phantoms of his dreams. He cooks for one, watches television without any commentary, goes to sleep alone and wakes up cold. His mind keeps drifting around the open wound that is Cas’ absence, prodding at it like a child with a loose tooth. He keeps on catching glimpses of Cas out of the corner of his eye, keeps imagining that if he just turns around quick enough then he’ll catch him this time. 

He’s empty. Everything important in him, he left in Cas’ kitchen that afternoon. 

He’s so goddamn tired. 

And then Cas asks, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes open and guileless, “Can we talk?”

And Dean is just so _tired_. 

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says neutrally. He makes sure to look everywhere except at Cas’ eyes; he knows from experience that one look at them will send him to his knees and it’s time for Dean to stand on his own feet. 

“Dean, I know that you’re angry at me, and you have every right to be. Please give me a chance; there’s things that you don’t—“

“I said no!” Dean’s voice rings out, a whipcrack of anger in the otherwise joyful parking lot. He can’t do it again: he’ll listen and he’ll forgive Cas, like he always does, because Cas is a charming, sympathetic son of a bitch and not so deep under the surface Dean can admit to himself that he wants to forgive Cas. If they could go back, just pretend even for a day…

But he pretended for too long. Several months too long in fact, and it was Cas who ripped the curtains away and exposed the truth. It was brutal and cruel, and Dean still hates him for it. 

“Look. Milton.” Castiel blinks, swift and surprised, and the monster living in Dean’s chest roars in satisfaction. “You’re damn right I’m angry. You think that you can just what? Apologize and I’ll be ok? Sorry doesn’t help shit, not when you turn around and just do the same crap over and over again.” Dean swallows. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck. “I can’t believe a single word that comes out of your mouth.” 

“Dean, please--”

“And now you want to tell me everything? You had months to do that.” Baby sits behind him, sleek, black, and solid. Reliable. “And maybe you’re trying to make it up to me, but honestly...I really think that you’re just trying to make yourself feel better.” 

Dean’s stomach claws at the rest of his innards until he can barely breathe. His vision goes blurry, not with tears because that would be ridiculous, to cry after all this time, but it’s rising in him, inescapable and inevitable.

His eyes meet Cas’. The blue pierces through him, shredding any semblance of control that he might have possessed. This is it: he’s destroyed, unmade. Castiel Milton has taken him apart and while he might rebuild, he will never again be whole. 

Dean’s voice is so thick that he doesn’t recognize it as his. 

“Goodbye Cas.” 

The Impala’s seat is scorching from the summer sun, but it’s still familiar, still the same as always. The world still turns. The engine rumbles as Dean drives away. 

If he were to look in the rear-view, then he would see Cas looking after him. He would see the slow crumple of his face, watch his shoulders slump. He would see Cas’ hands come up to rake through his hair, and note how Cas’ eyes never leave the Impala until it’s no longer visible. 

If Dean were to look in the rear-view, then he would see all of that. 

But he never looks back.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 _Goodbye Cas_. 

Has he moved? Is he on the road even now, headed towards a new life, one without Dean in it? 

He did the right thing; he knows he did. Dean learned long ago that it’s better to cut your own heart out than to linger in a soul-killing situation. John Winchester taught him that.

Dean left his father when he was sixteen years old. Just packed up his clothes and his baby brother and trekked across the country to safety. He never looked back then, so convinced that he was doing the right thing. 

He cut his own father out when he was a teenager. He knew that he was right. 

He’s an adult. Cutting Cas out was the right decision to make. 

So why does he keep on looking back?

Dean’s phone chimes with an alert. It takes him several minutes to look at it. The graduation parties are still going strong, and most likely it’s Benny or Jo texting him to demand his whereabouts. He’d begged off of the parties. He’s too empty to fake mirth, not even for his nearest and dearest. 

It’s not a text. It’s an email. 

An email from Cas. 

Dean’s heart beats a painful tattoo in his chest. His brain races in pointless circles, thrown into wild panic at the sight of Castiel’s name in the _From_ tagline. 

Don’t look at it, his logical, sane brain pleads. 

His fingers act without his consent, or perhaps his knowledge, and open his email. 

_From: miltoncj@gmail.com_

__**Subject: none**_ _

__

___**Dean,**_ _ _

____**First and foremost, I wanted to apologize again. I know that it’s less than worthless now, but please believe me when I say that not a minute goes by that I don’t regret what happened. I could spend hours telling you how sorry I was, and it still wouldn’t come close to expressing how I actually felt.** _ _ _ _

____**You’re under no obligation to read the rest of this email, if you clicked on it to begin with. I shouldn’t ask anything of you--**_ _ __

__

___Dean’s thumb jabs at the back button until the pad of his finger goes numb. Fury and regret war in him, turning his mind and heart into a battle zone. How...how dare he--The fucking-- _How dare_ \--_ _ _

___He can’t breathe. He inhales but nothing comes into his lungs. He tried to walk away, tried to cut Cas out, but he keeps coming back, keeps scratching at that wall. That wall is all that protects Dean, all that’s holding him together, and Cas thinks that he can just come and tear at it until Dean forgives him--_ _ _

___His feet take him upstairs before he’s aware of moving. Long forgotten instincts have him reaching for a forgotten duffel deep in his closet and shoving jeans, boxers, socks, and shirts into it. He learned the art of packing light from his father; learned that as long as a town had a laundromat, you didn’t need but a few days worth of clothes and a good supply of deodorant and toothpaste to survive._ _ _

___It takes Dean less than fifteen minutes to pack the necessaries into his duffel bag and a bookbag. He sets the bags by the door and, once his closet is as empty as the gaping hole in his chest, falls into bed. His sheets smell stale, like too many nights spent alone. He can’t bear another night in this house, another night in this town. He can’t bear staring at his living room and remembering Cas spread out on his carpet, can’t bear seeing Cas’ forgotten toothbrush on his bathroom counter. He can’t breathe in this goddamn town._ _ _

___\--_ _ _

___The next morning, when the faint pink light of dawn starts creeping through his blinds, Dean wakes up and showers. He brushes his teeth and rakes his fingers through his hair. He puts on a pair of jeans and a shirt, slides his feet into his boots. He walks downstairs and sets his air conditioner a few degrees higher than he normally does._ _ _

___He finds his phone and texts Jo. Jo, because she doesn’t wake up until at least ten during the summer, and by that time, Dean plans to have crossed at least one state line._ _ _

____**headed out of town for a few days. text you when i get there. would be swell if you could get my mail while i'm gone. promise to buy you a cool present.** _ _ _ _

___The Impala’s engine is obscenely loud in the quiet of the morning. Dean listens as her angry roar settles into a serene purr. “I can always count on you, huh babe?” He pats her dashboard, fingers lingering over the worn leather._ _ _

___He looks at his front yard. The yard where he and Cas played in the snow. Cas’ hands, resting on his shoulders as he leaned down and kissed him, sweet and soft and like eternity--_ _ _

___Dean puts the Impala in gear and drives away._ _ _

___He doesn’t look back._ _ _

___-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ _ _

____Dean Winchester’s Awesome Why You Should Love Me List_ _ _ _

___ _

_______Good friend_  
_Generous_  
_Intelligent_  
_Good older brother_  
_Caring_  
_Trustworthy_  
_Dedicated_  
_Hard-working_  
_Great sense of humor_  
_Kind_  
_Considerate_  
~~_Forgiving_~~ (?) 

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, I failed to mention that the angst train was taking a cross country trip.


	21. just give me motion to set me free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long, lonely road trip to nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can successfully tell you that I've finally gotten ahead of this monstrosity of a story and should hopefully, maybe, be on a posting schedule for the rest of the chapters. We are in fact, winding down towards the end, so if you've stuck with me for this long, you won't have much longer! 
> 
> If you have stuck with me for this long, then you're an honest to god saint. Also, you now get to witness my actual hard-on for our national park system.
> 
> The subtitle of this chapter was also "Dean's Awesome Playlist of Sadness", so there's that. It's as close to songfic as I'll ever get, but every road trip needs a few good tunes along the way.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Now those memories come back to haunt me_  
 _They haunt me like a curse_   
_Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true_   
_Or is it something worse_  
 _That sends me down to the river_   
_Though I know the river is dry_  
 _That sends me down to the river tonight_  
 _—The River, Bruce Springsteen_

Dean jabs his thumb at the radio with vicious prejudice. Fucking radio. He’ll never douche up his baby with something as crass as an iPod jack, but right now he can see the appeal in it. 

Fucking radio. 

Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, Dean fumbles at the shoe-box of cassette tapes. Plastic clinks as he selects a random tape and pops it into the player. 

He relaxes as _Enter Sandman_ blares through the speakers. Beating his fingers along with the opening beat, he watches the flat plains of Kansas race by. It’s eleven in the morning, Jo hasn’t texted him back yet, and he has no destination in mind. 

He might as well have traveled back in time, back to the days with Sam and his father. They lived on the road, and Dean never knew what state they were going to end up in that night. He doesn’t know now. With his credit card solid and reliable in his pocket, it’s not that big of a concern. What matters now is the blur of highway lines past the tires, the satisfied hum of the engine, and the bright feel of escape pumping through his veins. 

He always knew that he would come back to this someday. 

Dean shifts in the seat and presses his foot harder on the gas pedal. He heads west, away from Lawrence, away from home.

 

\--

When the last tendrils of light start to vanish behind the horizon, Dean scans for a hotel. He knows, from long hours spent riding shotgun to John Winchester, what to look for. Parking lots with tufts of grass stubbornly peeking through cracks in the pavement, tired one-story buildings with peeling paint on the walls and rust stains on the door. A tiny pool, surrounded by white bars that remind Dean of jail cells. A flickering neon sign displaying ‘Roadside Motel’ with both ‘o’s’ out of juice is the final clencher. 

The clerk behind the desk barely looks up from her phone when Dean enters. She snaps her gum loudly once and shoves a clipboard at him to fill out. Dean scrawls his information down and shoves his card across at the woman. Still mesmerized by the screen, she runs his information and hands him back his card, along with a small, tarnished key. Dean takes it, marveling over the idea that some motels still use real keys. 

The room is small and smells of mildew and stale cigarettes. The bedspread is a truly revolting shade of green and there are several stains on the dark blue carpet. The bathroom light glows sickly yellow and flickers whenever Dean steps too heavily. It’s nothing like his comfortable townhouse, which Dean furnished deliberately and carefully. 

Dean slings his duffel onto the bed and flops back on the mattress. The frame creaks underneath his weight and one resolute spring seems determined to poke him in the back no matter how he shifts. No doubt too many people have lain in this bed and these sheets have been washed too few times. 

Dean barely manages to kick off his boots and jeans and slide under the moth-eaten comforter before he falls asleep. 

\--

_John Winchester smiles as he accepts a wrench from Dean’s pudgy hands. Barely five feet tall, Dean has to stand on a milk crate in order to see the engine. He watches his father’s hands work. Every movement is practiced and assured. His hands don’t shake, not here. The ever present snarl fades, until all that’s left is concentration and the closest thing to happiness that his father feels._

_Dean loves these fleeting, ephemeral moments. For just a short few hours, it’s only him and his father. Sam is asleep in the room. The window is cracked just a little and Dean can hear the faint sound of Scooby-Doo filtering through the gauzy curtains. Normally Dean would be there with him, flipping through comic books or trying to sleep himself, but his dad is here and asked for his help._

_“And that’s how you replace a loose belt.” His father stands and stretches. Dean hands him a rag, stained with sweat and grease, and his father wipes his face with it. “So. You think that you’ll be able to do it next time?”_

_Dean stares at the tangle of belts and parts underneath the hood. He focuses, index finger tracing the lines of the belt as he recreates his father’s actions. “Yeah, I think so,” he answers after a few minutes additional contemplation._

_His father chuckles and scrubs at the back of his neck with the rag. “Good man,” he says simply, dropping his hand to Dean’s shoulder. “I’m going to go in and get a shower. Do me a favor and clean all this up?”_

_Dean grins as he watches his father disappear into the dark hotel room. He lays the tools out in the box, taking extra care to place everything in its correct position. He’d hate to ruin his father’s good mood by something as careless as being sloppy. Afterwards, he sits on the cracked sidewalk outside the room. A faint breeze catches his shirt and tugs playfully at it. Dean, caught in the riptide of peace, closes his eyes, leans his head back against the sunwarmed brick of the hotel, and smiles_.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean keeps heading west. 

He has no clear destination in mind. Eventually, if he keeps heading west, the Pacific Ocean will stop him. Until that point, he’ll just keep going. 

His phone rests in the seat beside him, and Dean does his best to ignore it. The texts started rolling in last night and they haven’t stopped. The usual suspects ask the usual questions. They want to know where he’s going, why he left, and when he’ll be back. Dean can answer exactly none of those questions, so he ignores them. They want to know if he’s all right. He knows the answer to that question, but it’s not a good answer, so he ignores that question as well. 

Instead, he sends a single text to Jo. 

_**am fine. promise. will call you when i end up where i’m going.** _

That was several hours ago. Every time Dean thinks about the friends he left behind in Lawrence, his foot presses down on the gas pedal. Every time he thinks about Cas traveling in the opposite direction, his foot presses down on the gas pedal. Before he knows it, the Impala races down the highway at a speed which is inadvisable for the narrow, two-lane road. 

His fingers clench on the steering wheel. No matter how fast he drives, he can’t seem to outrun the ache in his chest, the one that spreads through his body and forces his foot down on the pedal. It’s not far enough. Not by a long shot. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_And the secrets that we shared, mountains that we moved_   
_Caught like a wildfire out of control_   
_Til there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove_   
_And I remember what she said to me_   
_How she swore that it would never end_   
_I remember how she held me oh so tight_   
_Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then_   
_\--Against the Wind, Bob Segar_

 

Dean winds through Colorado and down into Arizona. He blinks in surprise when he starts seeing signs for the Grand Canyon, with the mile numbers descending the further down the highway he drives. 

Strange to think about, but for someone who spent the formative years of his youth traveling cross-country, Dean’s never been to the Grand Canyon. It was on his list, as a maybe someday trip. He’d thought about it sometimes, in the fuzzy, idle moments between waking and sleep. Thought that maybe it would be nice to take Sam and Jess there. Later, when events had spun out in a certain way, thought that he could add Cas to that trip. 

His half-awake brain is a sappy bitch: he’d thought about the selfies that they’d take, heads pressed together, arms around each other’s shoulders. Maybe they’d watch a sunset. Maybe, if Dean was feeling ballsy enough, they’d even kiss there. 

His half-awake brain is a stupid bitch. 

Dean doesn’t realize that he’s made a decision until he finds himself paying $30 to drive on congested roads. He pulls off the road when he comes to an overlook, but immediately struggles to find a parking place. He circles at least twice before he nips into a spot. He walks the short distance to the overlook and stops. Crowds of people clog the overlook. They're stacked up in rows of at least three deep. Dean paces through the crowds, his glare deepening with every step. He can’t even see the stupid canyon. 

A narrow, paved path leads away from the crowds. Dean starts down it, figuring that any view he gets from the path can’t possibly be worse than the one featuring the combined hordes of humanity. Sweat starts to bead along his hairline and the collar of his shirt as he walks. While there’s a tendril of cool air wafting through the canyon, it’s still Arizona in early June. 

He’s just about given up hope of ever seeing the stupid thing and is just about to turn back to the car, when it happens. The path opens to a small clearing, featuring a few rocks and a solitary tree. And beyond that clearing…

“Wow,” Dean whispers. His jaw hangs open as his eyes feast on the sight in front of him. He’s seen pictures before, but...It’s cliche, but no picture could ever do it justice. Shades of green, gold, and red stretch in front of him, as far as his eyes can see. Shadows and sun play over the rocks, creating a kaleidoscope of various textures and shades. 

“Awesome,” Dean breathes, finding a place in the sparse shade put out by the tree. He can’t tear his eyes away from the landscape. Every time he blinks something shifts, creating an entirely new world. When he gathers up the courage, he creeps towards the edge and looks down. Immediately, he’s attacked by a wave of dizziness. The canyon floor stretches below him, valleys and crevices upon more and more valleys. Far, far below him, the Colorado River winds its way through the rock, little more than a thin greenish sliver. It’s overwhelming, in the best way, but Dean retreats to the safety of his seat beneath the tree. 

He’s not given to looking at nature for long periods of time. His wonder is best served for other activities. But this view...Dean stays for hours, watching the cliffs under the play of the late afternoon sun. The sky darkens and long stretches of orange fill the sky. 

Sam would love this. He’d probably be one of those people that cry, the little bitch. Jess, while tougher than her husband, would love it too. He knows that her cloud would be filled with pictures by the end of the day. And Cas...Cas with his wonder and awe at the world around him, would be a sight to see. 

Dean watches as the dark bleeds through the sky, watches as the sun sinks down below the furthest point on the horizon. Stars glint into being above his head, tiny pinprick fires burning in the inky black. Below him, the Colorado River snakes on in its eternal journey, and Dean sits on the edge of the world, little more than an afterthought in the mind of the universe.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Dean met Cassie his sophomore year of college. Making friends had proven difficult, as self-conscious as he was about being older than the majority of students. Making friends with Cassie was more difficult. All of Dean’s easy charm had withered up the first time that she cast her eyes on him, and he could do little more than stammer in her general direction. If a random accident hadn’t put them together in Biology lab, then they might never have talked beyond the most basic of greetings. As it was, it took Dean over a month to approach anything resembling meaningful conversation._

_She’d been a Journalism major, determined that she was going to take the world by storm. Dean had been in awe of her passion and her drive. He’d known, even at the beginning, that she was going to leave him in the dust, but it had still been worth it to him, at the time, to attach himself to her rising star._

_It had been good. For a few months at least, it was good. Cassie was fire and passion, which translated well into the bedroom, and Dean was ready to lose himself in the first serious relationship of his life. They clicked and being together was easy enough._

_Dean entertained thoughts, even then, of what it might be like to settle down. Of what Cassie might look like twenty years from them, her dark hair beginning to silver at her temples, of what kind of careers they might have forged. He idly wondered what kind of ring he might buy her._

_They never made it that far. In the summer, they returned to their respective homes, and while they still talked and texted, it was obvious that something was missing. The spark, which had flared so brightly while they were together, fizzled into nothing without constant attention to feed it. By the time that they returned to classes in September, Dean and Cassie were almost strangers._

_It was an amicable sort of non-breakup, so Dean didn’t look at it too closely. It hurt, of course it hurt. Cassie was funny, Cassie was focused, Cassie was his, and then Cassie was gone. Dean liked her, presumably she liked him, and it wasn’t enough._

_Dean pushed the hurt to the back of his mind, and went around his business as always. He went to classes, smiled at Cassie if their paths ever happened to cross, and ignored the little twist in the back of his mind that whispered “What if?”_

_A few months later, he met Lisa, and forgot all about Cassie, except as a bittersweet memory. He didn’t realize it at the time, that he was setting himself up to be the leaving kind_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

After his stint in the Grand Canyon, Dean heads north. Again, he has no clear destination in mind, but Utah is hotter than the blazes of hell. Dean decides, after an afternoon there, that it doesn’t matter if it’s a _dry_ heat, 109 degrees is still _109 damn degrees_. 

He moves through Utah, and meanders through Idaho, before he’s seized by an urge to look at the ocean. Dean’s never been one for beach vacations, so he doesn’t know where the desire for salt water comes from, but once it’s there it’s almost impossible to ignore. So Dean turns the Impala west once more. By mid-afternoon, he’s crossing the state line into Oregon. 

Dean was raised in Kansas, and while he traveled throughout his childhood, John Winchester usually stuck to the heartland. Oregon is...awfully green. And rainy. The drizzle starts about twenty minutes after he crosses the state line and it never really stops. 

Perhaps, if his goal was to see the ocean, Dean could have picked a sunnier destination: Santa Monica Pier, San Diego...But the steel grey skies suit his mood, so he drives on. 

He tries not to think about what he would be doing right now if everything hadn’t been falling apart. He would have attended Bobby’s Memorial Day barbecue, maybe with Cas in tow. Sam and Jess would have been there, still infused with the newlywed glow. Jo and Charlie would have debuted as the new couple. Dean’s willing to bet that Jo would have gone red with embarrassment halfway through the day and he would have paid money to be able to make it happen. 

And afterward, maybe he could take Cas out to the small lake on the edges of Bobby’s property, maybe strip down to their skivvies, maybe a little less. Watch the stars, make out a little, get seasick off the floating dock...they’d make a date of it. 

But that door was slammed shut in his face, and the key was thrown away. And it’s not that he’ll never do those things again--Lisa visited the lake on Fourth of July long before Dean ever met Cas, but it’s that he won’t get to do them with Cas. Whenever he tries to place someone else in Cas’ place, his brain automatically rebels and he’s seized by a misery so intense that he inadvertently jerks the steering wheel. After almost careening into a ditch for the second time, Dean decides that it’s time to pull over. 

He finds himself at a tiny roadside motel called The Aspen Inn. It’s a little more rustic and yuppie-ish than he normally goes for, but he has to admit, the triangular shaped cabins are intriguing. The young woman behind the desk is genuinely perky, to the point where Dean feels bad for being a grumpy ass. 

“So what do you do for fun here in,” he surreptitiously checks the motel’s letterhead, “Fort Klamath, Oregon?” 

The girl blinks at him in confusion. “Most people come here for the lake.” At Dean’s blank look, she appears even more puzzled. “Crater Lake?” Still nothing. “It’s a national park?” Crickets. “Deepest lake in the United States? Ninth deepest lake in the world?” .

“I live in Kansas,” Dean says by way of explanation. “We don’t learn much about...the deepest lake in America.” 

“Well.” The girl recovers her composure. “If you’re going to be here for a while, then I’d recommend going. It’s really beautiful up there.” 

“Sure,” Dean says, not meaning it. He’s on his way to see the ocean, not some stupid lake. If there’s any lake that he wants to see, it’s in Lawrence, Kansas, not in some forgotten fold of Oregon. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

_Dean ran into Lisa, quite literally, one morning outside of the campus coffee shop._

_She was just finishing up her morning run and he was late for class. They collided and surprisingly enough, it was Dean’s ass which found its way onto the sidewalk. It was worth the pain in his tailbone, even worth the coffee scorching through his shirt (the burn would be classified as second-degree), because Lisa was apologetic and sincere and so utterly lovely._

_Her offer of a make-up coffee had been enthusiastically accepted by Dean. They spent three hours at a small table, heads bent close in conversation. They only left after they made a plan to meet the following day for dinner._

_Being with Lisa was easy in a way that being with Cassie never was. Lisa was relaxed, but she had a quiet intensity that shone whenever she and Dean were together. She was kind, kinder than Dean knew that he deserved. No matter how much he snapped and snarled, she was there, embracing his worst qualities with a sort of strength that brings Dean to his knees, every single time._

_Dean loved her, with a ferocity that he never thought himself capable of._

_The relationship lasted for a year, six months and a handful of days. They moved in together for senior year, in a tiny apartment that always managed to smell of someone else’s old gym clothes, no matter how much incense Lisa burned. Still, it was theirs, and Dean loved every inch of that stained carpet and chipped Formica counter._

_When it ended, it left Dean reeling. Just the week before, he’d been casually perusing the windows of a jeweler’s, wondering which style Lisa would like best. It wasn’t something that they’d ever talked about, but he figured it was just a matter of time before it came up._

_Instead, he found an empty apartment and an apologetic Lisa sitting on their threadbare couch. They’d picked that couch out together at the thrift store, laughed on it, made out on it, fallen asleep on it. Now, Lisa looked up at him and told him that it was over, that it just wasn’t working out between the two of them. She never explained exactly what wasn’t working; Dean never asked._

_First Cassie, then Sam, now Lisa. Dean stood still and accepted the kiss Lisa laid on him like a consolation prize, and watched her walk out the door._

_It was then that he started to wonder what about him made it so easy for people to leave him_. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Crater Lake actually is beautiful. 

It takes Dean an hour and a half of dedicated hiking (and he doesn’t hike dammit) to reach the shores, but even he has to admit, the sight is well worth it. The waters are a vibrant blue that Dean thought wasn’t found anywhere outside of storybooks and so clear that Dean swears that he can see almost to the bottom. He mentions this off-handedly and is immediately told that’s impossible, which come on. Hyperbole much? 

He dips his fingers in the water playfully lapping at the small stones of the shore. It’s colder than he would have thought, almost instantly turning his fingers numb. Lake water is always colder. He remembers a genuine worry that he’d actually frozen his balls off in the lake behind Bobby’s property. 

Remembering that causes a spike of unwelcome nostalgia and want to course through him. Dean wipes his wet hand on his jeans and starts back on the trail towards the Impala. There’s still only one lake that he wants to be at, and, gorgeous as it is, this one ain’t it. 

Sunlight glints off the water. Dean tries not to think about how the water is the exact shade of Castiel’s eyes.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Did they get you to trade_  
 _Your heroes for ghosts?_  
 _Hot ashes for trees?_  
 _Hot air for a cool breeze?_  
 _Cold comfort for change?_   
_Did you exchange_  
 _A walk on part in the war_   
_For a lead role in a cage?_

_How I wish, how I wish you were here_  
 _We’re just two lost souls_   
_Swimming in a fish bowl_   
_Year after year_  
 _Running over the same old ground_   
_And how we found_  
 _The same old fears_  
 _Wish you were here_  
 _—Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd_

Dean changes the radio station, spitting out a curse as the last rasp of the chorus fills the car. 

He’s really got to stop listening to the damn radio. 

—

In a tiny town called Winchester Bay, Dean finally sees the Pacific Ocean. After over three weeks of aimless wandering, the sight leaves him unfulfilled. It’s impressive, no doubt, the relentless crashing of white crested waves, and the sharp tang of salt in the air. But Dean undertook this endeavor hoping to find, in his secret heart, some kind of poetic closure. Like he would look out at the ocean and the world would gift him with a burst of philosophical understanding. It would all make sense to him then: Mom’s death, John Winchester, Lisa, and Cas...Dean might find the answers in the bosom of nature. 

Instead, he looks out at the unyielding, never ending water, and all he feels is tiny and insignificant. The ocean never cared about him. And he still doesn’t understand shit. 

—

He answers his texts that night, in a dimly lit motel room with spotty service. Everyone wants to know if he’s “ok”. Dean ignores the fact that the word is a relative term at best, lies and tells them that he is. Sam wants to know when he’s coming home. Dean lies and tells him soon. 

There’s still something out there. He’s not going to find whatever he’s looking for here, but that doesn’t mean that there’s nothing to find. 

Sam also urges him to check his email. 

Dean holds off on this order; the last email he’d gotten, the one from Cas, had been decidedly unwelcome. It’s the following morning before he slides in front of the ancient computer in the motel lobby and fires up his email account. 

He finds Sam’s email and skims quickly through it. After reading, he’s more confused than when he started. 

_**I don’t know if you want these or not, but I figure that you’d know best.** _

_**Come home soon. We all miss you.**_

Wrinkling his nose (could Sam be any more cryptic?) Dean clicks on the attachment. As the tired Internet finally loads, Dean sees what could have caused Sam’s worry. 

Pictures. It’s pictures of the wedding. And all of the pictures feature him and Cas in some aspect. 

Goddamn Garth—he couldn’t just be content to take pictures of the bride and groom. No, he had to go above and beyond, snapping photos of Dean like he was on commission per picture. They’re all candid shots: the Dean in the photographs is blissfully unaware that he’s being stalked. 

He sees himself at the beginning of the night, giving his speech. The camera captures what he missed in the stress of public speaking: Sam’s soppy smile and watery eyes, Jess’ hand over her mouth, her head pillowed in Sam’s shoulder. Bobby and Ellen are in the background. Even in the frozen memory, their faces glow with pride. Dean finds a small smile tugging at his face. 

He sees himself next with his friends, and now his smile blooms to full fruition. His arm is slung around Benny’s shoulders, while he grins at Charlie. Charlie who, Dean notices now, has her fingers tangled with Jo, just at her waist where no one will see. And off to the side, barely in the frame, stands Castiel. Dean blows the picture up, his greedy heart dictating past his reason. Castiel’s eyes are trained towards Dean. The expression on his face could only be described as longing. 

“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean mutters, minimizing the picture. Why the fuck would Sam send these to him? 

Common sense dictates that he should delete the email, shut the computer down, and never open his email again. But Dean gave up common sense a long time ago. Plus something tells him that he started this, and now he needs to see it through to the bitter end. 

So he scrolls through the rest of the pictures, and lives his life through a variety of snapshots. He sees himself dancing, laughing, drinking. Benny, Charlie, Jo, Sam, and Jess--they all circulate through the photos with him, but the one constant which remains is always Castiel. 

Dean’s breath comes in short bursts, as pain curls around his chest. Barbed hooks sink deep into him, burrowing further each time he sees the shock of Castiel’s hair. This is torture. Watching with an outsider’s viewpoint, knowing what comes next…

In the background of the pictures, fairy lights illuminate the dancing figures as darkness descends. By this time in the night, he and Castiel were talking, and if it was bad to see Castiel’s eyes trained on him with longing, then it’s worse to see the way that they look when they’re both unaware of being watched. 

The naked adoration on picture-Dean’s face is enough to make real-time Dean squirm uncomfortably. He wants to deny it, but it’s there, splashed across dozens of photographs in undeniable proof. In one, he and Castiel are talking, heads inclined so closely together that it’s impossible to tell where they separate. In another, they’re both talking to Charlie, shoulders pressed tight against each other. Dozens of pictures flash by (how much memory was Garth even working with?) and in each of them Dean sees him and Castiel, sees his love splashed across a cheap computer screen. 

And if that wasn’t bad enough...Dean drags his eyes away from his own face and looks at Castiel. _Cas_...He lands on one picture, taken late in the night. He and Cas are at a table, their chairs facing each other. Their knees bump against each other, fingers brush together. Dean’s head is thrown back in laughter, eyes closed in mirth, and Cas--Oh _god_ , what he wouldn’t have given to see that look on Cas’ face while they were together--

Cas’ eyes are wide, fixed on Dean’s face. The corners of his lips turn up in a small, awestruck smile, and it turns his whole face into a picture of...of…

Goddammit, if this was how Cas felt along, then why, why, _why_ couldn’t he tell Dean? 

Because Dean’s not the only one who wears adoration plain as day upon his face. Dean’s breath catches in his chest, the hooks shredding him until he’s bleeding, unmade. No one, not Cassie, not Lisa, _no one_ has ever looked at him with the sheer reverence on Cas’ face. Dean’s hand shakes as it moves towards the computer screen. His fingers touch the pixels which make up Cas’ face, like he could bring him into being through sheer force of will. 

He’d thought that it would feel better, to know for sure, but it doesn’t, oh god, it doesn’t feel better at all. It doesn’t feel better, to know that this is what he could have had, this is what they _both_ could have had, if only he’d been braver, if only Cas had been honest. 

Dean flips through the rest of the pictures, all the while feeling like he’s drowning. Garth got a picture of him and Cas kissing, of fucking course he did. Dean’s eyes closed, his head inclined in to Cas’, Cas’ fingers curving around the bolt of his jaw, Dean’s hand on Cas’ knee--They could have had this, for the rest of their lives, they might have had this--

Dean and Cas on the dance floor, and amazingly enough, Dean remembers that moment, his forehead on Cas’ shoulder, Cas’ arm around his waist, their fingers entwined. He remembers the heat of Cas, the scent of him. The way that Cas’ heartbeat was so close, Dean could feel it in his chest. The joy and love pumping through every part of him, until Dean was dizzy with it. 

Now he knows. 

Cas can lie to Dean, he can lie to the people surrounding him, he can even lie to himself, but all the lies in the world can’t fool the truth plastered in front of Dean’s face, in all its digital glory. 

Cas loves him. Or Cas loved him. Whichever it was, it doesn’t matter. Cas loved him, and he still left. 

Dean signs out of his email, gathers his bags checks out of the hotel, and starts driving east. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Through the storm we reach the shore_   
_You give it all but I want more_   
_And I’m waiting for you_   
_With or without you_   
_With or without you_   
_I can’t live_   
_With or without you_   
_And you give yourself away_   
_And you give_   
_And you give_   
_And you give yourself away_   
_\--With or Without You, U2_

\--

Dean doesn’t even bother to eject the cassette. 

There’s no fucking point. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s probably not safe for him to be driving a car. Dean drives without thought or plan, and it’s only muscle memory keeping the car on the road. When he blinks, all he can see in front of him is Cas’ face, the light shining out of his eyes. Cas’ face, eyes shadowed, as he tells Dean, _“We can’t do this anymore._ ” 

“Fuck,” Dean says. He’s been saying the same on a loop, for hours on end. The radio plays in the background, no doubt some depressing as hell song put on this earth just to torment him. 

He can’t get the pictures out of his head. Somehow, it was easier when he thought that Cas was just some cold, heartless bastard who was out to get his dick wet. To know that his feelings were returned, that Cas was just too much of a coward, now that’s...He doesn’t even know what he feels anymore. He hates Cas, with a pure and concentrated rage that he’s never felt before, but he misses him as well, so much so that if he concentrates, he can almost hear Cas’ voice, can almost see his figure out the corner of his eye. 

He could call him. He doubts that Cas has changed his number. It would be so simple. He just has to push the contact button and then he’ll hear Cas’ voice. He doesn’t think that Cas will ignore him. If anything, Cas would be eager to hear from him. He still hasn’t forgotten Cas’ attempt to talk to him after graduation or his email. 

But he can’t. He remembers Missouri’s list, the feeling of the world tilting underneath him as Cas told him that it was over. The letter on Cas’ counter, tangible proof that Cas had been lying to him for months. He can’t. He can’t put himself through that again, not even when every piece of him is screaming for Cas. 

So he drives and he doesn’t stop until long after night falls. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_It’s only right that you should_  
 _Play it the way you feel it_  
 _But listen carefully to the sound_   
_Of your loneliness_  
 _Like a heartbeat drives you mad_   
_In the stillness of remembering what you had_  
 _And what you lost_  
 _What you had and what you lost_  
 _Thunder only happens when it’s raining_  
 _Players only love you when they’re playing_  
 _Say women they will come and they will go_  
 _When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know_  
 _\--Dreams, Fleetwood Mac_

\--

Dean is almost through Idaho when he realizes where his brain has been steering him. He drives past the signs for the park’s entrance, pays the entrance fee, and drives. Signs point him where he wants to go. It’s the biggest attraction the park has to offer after all. 

The sky is just turning pink when Dean parks. Dozens of people crowd on the benches, so Dean walks around to the edges where not as many people crowd. He can still see. 

A faint breeze wisps through the valley, enough to make him put his hands inside his coat. He looks up at the sky. Even through the blue and pink, he can spy the outline of the moon rising, and behind it, the stars struggling to light. 

There’s nothing special about this place, not really. But at the same time, it’s everything. 

_Yellowstone_ , Cas had said, that night so long ago. He’d talked to Dean, been there for his worst moments. When Dean was crumbling apart, Cas put him back together. Dean had fallen into him that night, trusting in Cas’ capable hands, and Cas hadn’t let him down. That night is imprinted into his very skin, and Dean remembers. 

Yellowstone. The place that Cas’ father had tried to take his family, and the place that he’d never quite been able to reach. The place that Cas had never seen. And now Dean stands off to the side, counting down to Old Faithful’s eruption. 

He’s not quite sure of the geology behind geysers. He knows that they’re giant steam vents, which get overheated and the pressure needs to escape somewhere. He can sympathize. 

A faint hissing noise catches his attention. Dean’s eyes snap towards the geyser, where steam billows out with more more enthusiasm and volume than before. His heart quickens as he sees a faint burble of water rise to the surface. Anticipation catches him and in the distance, he can hear the rising murmur of voices. All of his attention is focused on the water and steam, until--

Dean’s breath catches as the geyser erupts. Water rises in a majestic arc, so high that he has to crane his head back to see the full height. The faint scent of sulfur comes to him as the water starts to fall, warm and sour on his face. It’s worth it though, to see this, to see the power and explosion. 

After a few seconds, the water starts to fall down, retreating as swiftly as it rose. Dean watches until the end, until he can’t be sure that the dampness on his face comes entirely from the geyser. The pink streaks in the dark widen and darken as dusk begins to roll in. 

“All right,” he mutters, rubbing his palm across his mouth. “All right.” 

He loved Cas. Part of him still does, and he suspects that part of him always will. And now he knows that Cas loved him too. Deny it, run away from it...Cas loved him. Cas loved him, Dean suspects, with more fervor and devotion than he’s ever been loved before. Maybe than he ever will be again. And in the end, that still wasn’t enough. In the end, Dean wasn’t enough. 

“Ok. All right,” Dean repeats, needlessly, uselessly. He stares at the sky, at the unfamiliar stars twinkling into existence before him. With a vicious twist in his chest, he realizes that he doesn’t want to be here anymore. 

His hand gropes in his back pocket and comes up with his phone. He dials the number by memory before bringing it to his ear. It only rings twice before Sam’s voice comes on the line, harried and concerned. 

“Dean? Where the hell are you man, you’ve got everyone freaking out--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean answers, over Sam’s objections. “It’s okay Sammy. I’m coming home.” 

Sam’s voice is tinny and anxious through the phone line as he demands to know where Dean is, what the hell was he thinking, is he all right...Dean hangs up, his ears ringing with the responsibility of the life he left behind, of the life he’s returning to. He’s not his father. He can’t pack up and run away just because something bad happened. 

“Well,” Dean says, turning around and examining the expanse of park. He could spend weeks here, discovering everything that this park has to offer, but it’s not enough. He could have spent every day learning everything that Cas had to offer, but that choice was taken away from him. 

He said it before, in the parking lot, and at the time, he meant for it to be final. There was no reason that it shouldn’t have been: Cas was moving away, and whatever life he was intending to start in Chicago, Dean would no longer play a part in it. But here, standing in Wyoming, next to the world’s most famous geyser, is when the words start to sink into his soul and finally, have meaning, have permanence. 

Whatever future he and Cas could have had together, whatever life they might have built, any potential there was...It’s vanished, as sure as the steam dissipates into the evening air. All those nights he and Cas spent together, the nights at the diner...He’s not even going to run into Castiel at the grocery store, won’t even get to embrace the painful awkwardness of trying to figure out what to say to someone he once loved. 

Dean’s never going to see him again. Castiel is gone. 

“Goodbye Cas,” Dean whispers, to the geyser, to the trees, to the stars. To Cas, with his smile, with his gentle hands, with his wonder, with his love. 

Dean breathes deep, and starts the walk back to the Impala. Once he reaches the car, he loads a cassette tape into the deck at random. Music fills the car, and when he realizes which tape he loaded, he’s tempted to yank the whole deck out of his car. But it’s not worth in the end, not really. 

Dean lets the song play out as he starts the long drive back home. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_Measuring a summer’s day, I only find it slips away to grey_   
_The hours they bring me pain_   
_Tangerine, tangerine, living reflection from a dream_   
_I was her love, she was my queen, and now a thousand years between_   
_Thinking how it used to be_   
_Does she still remember times like these?_   
_And think of us again?_   
_And I do_   
_Tangerine, tangerine, living reflection from a dream_   
_I was her love, she was my queen, and now a thousand years between_   
_\--Tangerine, Led Zeppelin_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	22. maybe you would've been something i'd be good at

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to normalcy, a new face, and a familiar face.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For the rest of the summer, Dean is under constant surveillance. 

Sure, no one calls it that, but the fact remains that his friends and family are omnipresent, when usually they’re like a benign Big Brother. Bobby calls him almost every other day with a problem that Dean knows he can damn well solve by himself. Ellen demands his help at the school, and Dean moves so many bookshelves for her that he’s thinking of putting ‘Professional Furniture Mover’ on his C.V. Charlie and Jo seize him several nights a week, to the point where ‘movie night’ becomes almost every night. Benny is excluded from the list of his wardens, only by virtue of his being at the other end of the country. However, he still gets texts from him at least twice a day, asking him what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, what plans he has for later that day. 

Worst of all is Sam, who clings to Dean with all the tenacity of a burr. At this point, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if his brother lo-jacked his phone, the Impala, even his shoes. He examines every drink Sam gives him, just in case his brother implanted a tracker in his beer. 

“Will you stop,” Sam says one night, shoving at Dean’s arm. 

“Have to make sure that you’re not trying to make me swallow something weird,” Dean answers, twisting out of his brother’s abnormally long reach. He shakes the half-empty bottle for emphasis, just to be a dick. 

“Well, forgive me for being a little leary of your motivations,” Sam answers. A frown takes over his face. While it’s not bitchy yet, it certainly has the potential to become so. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I promise, I won’t disappear in the middle of the night,” he intones, holding up his fingers in what he thinks might be the Boy Scout’s oath. That swiftly changes to a single, raised, middle finger. “Though I might just murder you, if you keep on smothering me.” 

“Please don’t,” Jess says, settling on the couch next to Sam. He automatically lifts his arm to allow Jess’ feet into his lap. “We haven’t gotten our life insurance straightened out yet, and I don’t intend to be a poor widow.” 

“Well, let me know when you do. If you butter me up real sweet, then I might even make it look like an accident at work, get you that really good worker’s comp.” 

“If you’re quite done planning my death,” Sam interrupts, a sour look on his face. 

“At least out loud,” Dean answers, giving Sam a cheeky grin and a perky thumbs-up. Sam rolls his eyes and mumbles something under his breath which Dean doesn’t bother to try to interpret. At the very least, Sam leaves him alone and doesn’t try to imply that Dean has one foot out the door. 

Eventually, his friends relent. Dean’s leash grows longer and soon it’s possible for him to go an entire forty-eight hours without hearing from his family. However, even though his presence is no longer required by them, he finds himself going to Bobby and Ellen’s for dinner, or slinking over to Jo’s to spend the night on her back porch. It’s better than being alone.

Without work to distract him, there’s hardly anything to keep Dean busy. He cleans his apartment until even the grout in the bathroom is spotless and gleaming. He masters new recipes, including one for a cherry pie, which, coincidentally, doesn’t last long. He finishes up several books on his reading list, and afterwards, finds that he can’t remember a damn word that any of them said. 

He doesn’t mention Castiel. His friends return the favor, but Castiel’s presence, or lack thereof, lingers over every conversation and every interaction. Dean tries to remember that he wasn’t the only one who lost something; all of his friends were Castiel’s friends as well. Still, it’s hard not to compare. They all lost a friend: someone to drink with, laugh with, socialize with. Dean lost...Well, he lost and that’s the important thing. 

Every so often, Sam will get a look in his eye, like he’s dying to say something. Every time, Dean cringes, waiting for the words that will demolish him. He can talk about Cas with Missouri. She’s an objective outsider with no particular stake in the affair. But to talk about Cas with Sam...to see the pity and sympathy in his brother’s eyes, to acknowledge the weight of everything he lost...He breathes a sigh of relief when Sam’s face smooths out and he lets the elephant in the room remain. 

Not that it matters. Dean could talk about it; he just doesn’t want to. He’s fine. 

It’s fine. Ignoring Castiel or talking about him non-stop, it doesn’t make any difference one way or the other. Ignoring Castiel isn’t going to make him upset and talking about Castiel isn’t going to bring him back, so it’s whatever. It’s fine. 

Dean avoids going past Cas’ old house. The avoidance isn't a burden; it’s on the other side of town and Dean has no business there. But even if he had to travel that way every day, he would still avoid it. It’s fine, it’s nothing, but he doesn’t want to see another car parked in Cas’ driveway, doesn’t want to see how a new tenant would change the shrubberies in front. It's not his business, but he still wouldn't like it. It’s fine, either way. 

He flips through his phone occasionally and deliberately avoids looking at the pictures. He can’t bear the sight of them, but he also can’t bear the thought of deleting them. He has dozens of pictures: Cas smiling with a faint hint of exasperation in his eyes, Cas scowling as he tried to shove the phone away, Cas asleep on the rare occasion that Dean woke up before him. He even has one suggestive picture, taken while Dean was giving Cas the world’s slowest handjob. It’s nothing obscene: just Cas’ face, his eyes closed and lashes dark on his cheek, a flush rising from his neck up to his cheeks, mouth slack and open. Cas is artless in his pleasure, mesmerizing in his abandon. 

To never see that again...Dean closes the app and puts his phone away, and doesn’t think about it. It’s fine. 

He considers deleting Cas’ number from his phone. His thumb hovers over the small trash can at the corner for several long minutes. He’s not going to call it. What would be the point? Erasing the number would cut a tie, one that he doesn’t need. 

He doesn’t cut that last, frayed thread between them. The number remains. It’s fine. 

He’s fine.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The remainder of summer passes in a quick blaze. All too soon, August is approaching and it’s time for Dean to prepare for a new year of classes and students. It’s with a mixture of anticipation and regret that he drags himself to the school to fix up his room for the upcoming year. 

The school still has the empty feeling of summer when he enters. It smells musty, like old air-conditioning, and the floors gleam with their recent waxing. Dean nods at the few other teachers who are present and spends the day in his room, rearranging desks and posters until he’s satisfied. 

On his way out, he walks by Cas’ old room. He didn’t have to walk this way, but somehow, he ended up here. Here, where so many of his afternoons were spent. Here, where he first got to know Cas as something else other than Dr. Milton. He stares at the darkened room. The open door beckons him. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he pokes his head into the room.

Nothing of Cas’ remains. Not his chair, not his posters, not his writing on the board. Dean was expecting it, but it still leaves him with a hollow, aching feeling in his chest. 

Cas is gone. And the sooner Dean can get that through his thick skull, the better off he’ll be. 

As he walks out, he catches sight of Adler. Adler’s smile spreads slow across his face, as soothing as an open knife. If there was any doubt in Dean’s mind whether Adler remembers their conversation last May, it’s erased with that look. Adler remembers all right. Dean has no doubt that as soon as the year starts, his boss will make good on his promise to start making Dean’s life miserable. 

Dean squares his shoulders and walks out of the building. Just another thing to look forward to. 

It’s fine. He’s fine.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

With the arrival of August, school begins once more. Dean throws himself into his new students. Some of his seniors he recognizes from the previous year as students in his English 11 class; others are new to him. While none of them have the personality of Claire, Kevin, or Patience, he does think that he’ll find amusement in a new trio: Max, Stacy and Eliot all seem fairly intelligent, even if there’s a gleam to Max’s eye that he doesn’t trust. Inias and Alfie are also in his senior class. Both of them give him a smile and a wave as they grab a seat. 

Dean settles into the year and keeps a mantra running through his head: It could be worse. If Adler’s planning a move, he hasn’t made it yet, and as the month stretches on, Dean starts to relax. It’s just his job. If there’s one thing that he knows how to do, it’s his job. 

And if he has trouble falling asleep at night, well that’s his problem. If he shoves the pillows to one side of his bed so that he can fall asleep with his arm draped over something, well, maybe he just sleeps better that way. If he stops cooking except for the essentials, if he starts to rely on takeout and pizza more and more, well, it’s exhausting to have to cook and clean continuously. 

And if he sometimes substitutes whiskey for food, then whose business is it but his? If he has a drink or three before bed, then who’s going to tell him no? If he spends too long flipping through the pictures on his phone, if he falls asleep with the memory of Cas’ skin pressed against his, Cas’ lips on his--Well then, it’s fine, isn’t it? 

Life goes on, and Dean’s along for the ride. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

August is always a miserable month. The weather is muggy and oppressive, and made all the worse by returning to the constraints of school. The school’s exhausted air-conditioner can’t keep up with the sweltering heat, and Dean takes to keeping a stick of deodorant in his room. He comes home every day with his damp shirt sticking to his back and listens to the echoes of an empty house. 

Still, Dean’s motto remains true: It could be worse. His classes go smoothly, his students are, for the most part, reasonable, and Adler has been biding his time for so long that Dean can almost convince himself that he’s in the clear. August slogs on and Dean slogs through it, and as the time passes, he can admit to himself and Missouri that he’s approaching something verging on contentment, if not happiness. 

It’s not complete, of course. He acknowledges that the first time that the Scholastic Bowl meets in his room. He completes the introductions and lets the team get to work. All the while, he feels the absence in the room like a palpable wound. He goes to the first football game of the season and sits with Sam, Jess, Benny, and Jo. He welcomes Charlie, who arrives with a long-suffering sigh. He listens to Jo explain plays to Charlie, who, Dean is convinced, is faking her ignorance. He dodges Jess’ elbows as she jumps, and trades jokes with Benny, and afterward, he goes to the Roadhouse and drinks, and laughs, and all the time he doesn’t think about the missing place beside him, the absence of a low, rumbling laugh. 

But no one, not even Dean Winchester, can exist in sorrow forever. He finds himself smiling more, laughing longer, and sleeping better. Three fingers of whiskey drops down to two, and sometimes Dean can go a whole day and a half without thinking of Castiel. 

September arrives and with it comes Lydia. 

Dean’s still shaky on the convoluted string of connections which led to their meeting--Lydia is the friend of one of Andrea’s girlfriend’s brothers? Whatever the case, they were at the Roadhouse at the same time and conveniently left alone with copious quantities of alcohol. 

Lydia is a breath of fresh air that feels more like a tempest. She works at KU, as a departmental secretary. It helps pay for her graduate classes, she tells him, as she coyly tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. In her free time she helps teach Krav Maga classes, and that little tidbit of information sends a hot spike of interest through Dean’s brain. She drinks like a fish and plays a mean game of darts, and if he’d met her a year and a half earlier, then Dean might have already gone down on one knee and proposed. 

As it is…

“Look,” he says, more than a little drunk, “you’re great. You know you’re great.” Lydia smiles, no false modesty there. “And any other time, I’d be…” He waves his hand to illustrate his point. No need to be crude. “But there’s--”

“Let me guess,” Lydia interrupts. Her fingers dance along the edge of her glass. “There’s someone else?” She ducks her head and examines his expression. “Or was?”

Dean wordlessly nods. 

Lydia’s smile quirks, maybe a little bitter, but Dean can’t blame her. “There always is, isn’t there?” she asks, breath puffing out in a quiet sigh. 

“I just…” The words falter on his tongue, but he forces them out, even though they taste sour and sound awful. “It was a bad breakup,” he begins. The words sound pathetic, even to him. “I loved him and I’m still not…” He can’t put into words what he feels, but if he could, then it might go a little something like this: 

_I met the love of my life and for a while I got to hold him and kiss him. He was beautiful, and he was smart, and he was kind, and for a time, he was mine. I woke up next to him in the morning and kissed the sleep from his mouth. I made him coffee and breakfast and we kissed in the kitchen and while we did the dishes. We spent weekends together where we never changed out of our pajamas, and some days we never bothered to get out of bed._

_I met the love of my life and he loved me, but it wasn’t enough for him to stay. I met the love of my life and even though he’s gone I still love him and it’s not fair for me to subject anyone else to the clusterfuck that is me. I met the love of my life and he’s gone now but I wish to god that he was here._

But all that would make him sound like an asshole crazy person, so Dean says, “We broke...it ended,” Dean corrects himself, “at the end of April. Which should be enough time, right? But it’s...” He trails off, hoping that silence can fulfill the purpose that his words cannot. 

Surprise, surprise, he still sounds like an asshole crazy person.

Lydia nods. She doesn’t say that five months should be enough to get over a person, or comment on how much of a jerk Dean is for leading her on with no intention of pursuing a relationship. She takes a sip of her drink and leans back in the booth before fixing Dean with a significant look. 

“So you’re obviously hung up on this other person, and I’m not a poster child for healthy relationships, but I like you and if the way you’ve been checking me out all night is any indication, you like me.” 

A small smile rests on Dean’s lips. “Can’t say that you’re wrong.” 

Lydia inclines her head. “So don’t complicate it or make this into something that it’s not. Let’s just...see where this takes us, huh?” 

The words are familiar. Dean said them himself nine months ago. It’s enough to make his stomach churn. 

His trepidation must show on his face. Lydia laughs and brushes the back of her knuckle down his cheek. “Whoever they were, they messed you up good and proper.” Dean glances down at the table, unable or unwilling to answer. Lydia’s knuckle presses against his chin and urges his face upward. “Hey. It’s all right. I’m not some kind of fragile sculpture that you have to protect.” 

“I know that,” Dean says. He laces his fingers together, then lays his hands flat on the table. He finds the edge of a damp napkin and starts shredding it. “Trust me, I know that. But it’s still not fair to you.” 

“Don’t you think that I should make that decision?” Lydia grins before she wraps her fingers around Dean’s, halting his destruction of the napkin. “Look, I’m not looking for a husband or The One. I’m just looking for a good time, and you’re pretty funny and kinda hot. So stop overthinking.” 

This is how he gets into trouble, Dean thinks, even as he leans over the table and brushes his lips over Lydia’s. Every single time. 

Lydia kisses him back, a hint of aggression in her touch, her teeth skimming lightly over his lower lip. Dean closes his eyes and pushes back the surge of guilt, of want. He can’t help but compare, can’t help but want to feel the scrape of stubble against his chin, can’t stop himself from wanting to feel Cas’ hands on his, capable and sturdy. 

He’s not breaking any promises. Cas left him; Dean shouldn’t feel any sort of loyalty towards him. But it’s still not right. 

Dean pushes that thought to the back of his mind as he and Lydia separate, each to their respective sides of the table. “Who knows?” Lydia asks, raising a thoughtful brow. “Maybe you’ll have some fun after all.” 

Dean forces a smile. After a moment, he finds that it’s not forced. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

So he starts spending his free time with Lydia, and when his friends ask tentatively how he’s doing, it’s hardly a lie when he shrugs and says that he’s doing fine. Lydia is great, really. She’s fun and kick-ass, and blows through his life like a tornado. She keeps him laughing and keeps him moving, and in the time that he spends with her, Dean almost forgets that he’s supposed to be miserable. 

It’s not great, it’s certainly not perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot happier than he thought he’d be in the middle of June, so he’s willing to take it. 

And if Sam still gives him that look, the one that screams _Please, let’s talk so that you can lay your head on my shoulder and weep your sad tears_ , then at least the smile that Dean gives him in return isn’t horrifically forced. 

September slides by, and Dean’s mood lifts. Classes are going fine, Scholastic Bowl is going well, and things with Lydia are going great. She matches him, move for move, her kisses hungry, her hands demanding. Her legs wrap around his hips and hold him close, and while he’s with her, Dean can shove everything to the back of his mind. She runs her fingers through his hair, afterward, and Dean sighs with something resembling contentment and tries all the while not to wish that her touch was firmer, tries not to miss what he knows he shouldn’t. 

And it’s great, it really is. It would be even better if his friends would keep their noses out of his life. 

“When are we going to meet this dynamite gal?” Charlie asks one night, sprawled against Jo’s shoulder. Jo’s fingers idly rake through her hair and Charlie hums. A pleased smile curls her lips and she snuggles more firmly into Jo’s side. 

Dean shrugs. “Whenever,” he says, not really meaning it. Lydia’s great, she really is, but this is just sort of a casual thing. There’s no need to introduce her to the family. She hasn’t made any mentions of wanting him to meet her family, so it would be weird to be the first to make that overture. 

“Sure,” Jo says. If her tone wasn’t enough to express her skepticism, her face would do the rest. “I won’t hold my breath,” she finishes under her breath, but purposefully loud enough so that Dean can hear her. 

Dean rolls his eyes and ignores her, but it’s not the last he hears of the topic. 

“So Andrea was wondering if you and your girl wanted to meet up for dinner one night this week,” Benny says. Dean squints at him. He’s known Benny for quite a few years, and knows that when his drawl gets that over pronounced, something suspicious is happening. 

Dean chooses a different, but perhaps related, battle. “She has a name you know.”

Benny nods. “I’m sure, but you never mention it, so I wouldn’t know.” 

“You know, I’d expect this passive-aggressive bullshit from Sam, but not from you.” Dean pushes past Benny towards the door. His mood has completely soured. 

“So that’s a no on the dinner then?” Benny calls after him, seemingly unphased. Dean ignores him as he storms down the hallway towards his classroom. 

He’s still seething several minutes later. He meant what he said: Sam is a master at twisting verbal knives, and he’s certainly not above being passive-aggressive and snide, but that’s not usually Benny’s game. It’s definitely not like Benny to poke his nose into Dean’s business when he hasn’t been expressly invited. 

And so what if he hasn’t introduced Lydia to his friends? It’s not like he’s ashamed of her. That’s ridiculous. It’s just that it’s casual. He and Lydia are enjoying what they have right now, and the easiest way to keep on enjoying that is to keep it casual, which means keeping his family and friends out of it. 

Dean takes a moment and paces around his room several times. By the time he comes to a stop, his mind isn’t any clearer, but at least he’s not seeing red. His friends are assholes. Whatever. It’s fine. They want to meet Lydia. That’s fine. They won’t meet her right away, but they’ll meet her eventually, and that’s what’s important, right? 

Assholes. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

His foul mood has only slightly abated when he leaves for the afternoon. He’s headed to KU to pick up Lydia. There’s a new cafe that she wants to visit, right on the outskirts of campus, and it’s easier for Dean to come to her. The drive is too short and the traffic too congested for him to find any peace in it, so he arrives at the campus with lingering irritation which threatens to shift into a truly foul mood. 

He parks the Impala in what he deems to be the safest possible spot. He doesn’t trust these narrow spaces; his baby wasn’t made for such small confines. He walks onto the campus, taking a moment to enjoy the sights. 

It’s been a while since he’s been back to the alma mater. He can admit to himself that he misses it: the rush and exhilaration, the camaraderie, even the stress and exhaustion. College was a strange, wondrous time, made all the more exciting by the fact that for most of his life, Dean had been convinced that he would never get to attend. He’d thrown himself into the life and yet, when he graduated, he never really looked back. 

Now he takes the time to appreciate the scenery. A student bumps into him, jostling his shoulder as she rushes past him. She tosses off a quick apology and is gone before Dean can tell her that it’s no problem. 

He waits on a bench outside of Haworth Hall. Lydia told him that she would be getting off work within the next ten minutes and despite the impending chill in the air, the afternoon is still temperate. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets the sounds of the university wash over him. The afternoon sunlight is warm, but not scorching, and if he had enough time Dean could fall into a doze. 

In quiet moments like this, it’s easier to slip into nostalgia. Dean’s happy with his life, he really is. He’s about to meet his smoking hot girlfriend and have a decent meal. After that, they’ll probably go back to her apartment and make out for a little while before they take things into the bedroom. They’ll fuck, and they’ll lie together for a while, and Dean will have to leave before it gets too late, but it’s not shaping up to be a bad night. 

Still....He can’t help but remember other nights, spent watching crappy reality television and bursting into giggles at sardonic comments. He remembers dozing on his couch, with his head pillowed on a pair of sturdy thighs, long fingers combing through his hair. He remembers the dinners they shared, the warmth in the kitchen, the scents permeating the air. He remembers falling asleep at night, next to another body, and thinking that maybe this was all he needed. 

Dean blinks open his eyes and shakes his head. There’s no sign of Lydia, but there’s still a few minutes more before she’s supposed to get off. He scans through the crowds, idly people watching. Claire and Alex both planned to attend KU in the fall; it would be a treat if he happened to run into either of them. 

Maybe it’s the nostalgia clouding his thoughts. Maybe it’s the memories crowding around him, thick as flies, until he can almost brush them away from his face. Maybe he’s just gone crazy. 

Because his eyes have to be lying to him. That’s the only rational explanation. Dean blinks, closes his eyes so hard that tiny white spots dance behind his closed eyes. When he opens them, he’s dizzy but the vision doesn’t change, doesn’t waver, except it’s closer than it was before. 

Dean’s chest rips in half, all his forgotten emotion, his grief, his _love_ , Christ Almighty, he’d almost forgotten what it was to feel like this, to be lit up from the inside--

Dr. Castiel Milton pauses, head lifting as if in response to some unspoken call, and locks eyes with him from across the yard.

_**end Part iii** _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	23. even closer to you, you seem so very far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Summer of Sadness, Part Deux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the chapter that literally no one asked for! 
> 
> We will return to our regularly scheduled plot in a few days. For now, enjoy. <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_**intermezzo iii** _

 

_**April** _

After Dean leaves, Castiel pushes himself up from the floor. He scrubs at his eyes until the skin around them is red and raw, and wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His stomach lurches again, threatening to spill more bile. 

He walks through his house on numb legs. He touches various objects: a plate, a pen, a halfway burned candle. He’s not sure why he’s reaching for these items. He’s not sure why they’re in his house to begin with. He trails his finger over the kitchen counter and picks up the letter from Northwestern with trembling hands. 

It was a mistake to leave it out in the open. It was a mistake not to tell Dean everything from the beginning. The naked betrayal on Dean’s face, the hurt, the shock. And then, worse than that, the careful blankness that followed. Castiel swallows at the remembrance of Dean’s eyes--those beautiful eyes, verdant and passionate. Those eyes, that had glowed with affection. Those eyes, turned cold and hard, and all because of Castiel. 

“Fuck,” Castiel murmurs, fisting his hands in his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He’d done the right thing. He knew that. It wasn’t fair to Dean to let him yearn after something that Castiel couldn’t give. It was kinder to let Dean loose, to allow him to find happiness. It was the right thing. 

So fuck, why does it hurt so much?

_**May** _

It turns out that his letter of resignation is a short piece of work. It’s not even three paragraphs. 

He walks the hard copy to Naomi Goddard himself. Despite the fact that he has more degrees than her, he’s always been slightly intimidated by the woman, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot as she reads. It takes her a long time to read three paragraphs. 

Finally she looks up at him. “Well Dr. Milton, we’re sorry to be losing you.” Her voice is the definition of neutral. Somehow, that makes it worse. 

“It’s not a lack of happiness with my position.” He doesn’t have to explain himself, but he does. Perhaps it’s lingering guilt. Perhaps it’s just the feel of a secret pressing against his throat and his ribs, forcing its way out of him. 

“My sister is...she’s not well,” Castiel begins. It’s the same words that he’s used to describe his father and sister for as long as he can remember. “She used to be covered under the family policy but the policy changed at the beginning of the year, and since then she’s been without coverage. I talked to H.R., but even with all the help that they can give me,” Castiel inhales and tries to slow the frantic babble of his words, “it’s not going to be enough.” 

Naomi listens to him with an impassive face. She nods once in acknowledgement, a tiny jerk of her head, but that’s it. Castiel has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from over-explaining. He’s already said more than was required of him. 

“Well,” Naomi says, after a long pause. “I am sorry to hear that. If your situation ever changes, then know that you’ll always be welcome back.” Castiel nods. Of course he’d be welcome back. Any person of his credentials would be welcome. 

“I think you misunderstand me,” Naomi says. For the first time, a hint of sharpness creeps into her voice. “You’ll be welcome back because I value your skills as an educator and as a person. You genuinely care Castiel, and that’s not something that any amount of degrees or doctorates can teach you.” 

A small coal of warmth emerges in Castiel’s chest. It’s all the more painful because it seems that he only knows the value of things once they’re no longer his to possess. “Thank you,” he says, voice rasping out of his mouth. “Trust me, I wish that matters were different. I…” He trails off. Everything that he could say is too close to the matter, and to speak would be to probe at wounds he has no intention of every acknowledging. “Thank you.” 

It’s a pathetic end and a pitiful attempt at gratitude, but it’s the best that Castiel can offer. Thankfully, Naomi doesn’t press. She extends her hand and grips Castiel’s hand in a grip just short of bruising. “Good luck Dr. Milton,” she says, before settling back into her chair in a gesture of clear dismissal. 

Castiel leaves her office and starts to make the long trek back to his room. As he’s leaving, out of the corner of his eye, he catches Adler watching him. Once he realizes that he’s been spotted, Adler makes his way towards him. Castiel grits his teeth and waits. 

He’s never cared for Adler. The man exudes an obnoxious mix of superiority and fawning, and the combination grates on Castiel’s nerves. He’s perhaps the one thing that Castiel won’t miss about working at Lawrence High. 

“So the rumors are true,” Adler says. An odd smile plays over his face. “You’re leaving us at the end of the year?”

“Indeed.” Castiel might be willing to pour out his life story to Naomi, but Adler is lucky to get a response from him. “A better opportunity presented itself elsewhere.” 

“I see. Well, I suppose that it’s your prerogative to look out for your career.” 

Castiel says nothing. He doesn’t have to explain himself to this small-minded, petty man. His silence seems to irk Adler, who forces a cruel little smile. “I suppose that it was too much to ask the accomplished Dr. Milton to slum with the rest of us for overlong.” 

“Thank you for your concern.” Castiel forces the words out through gritted teeth. “I can only wish you luck in your career, Mr. Adler.” He makes sure to stress the honorific. Aware of the slight, Adler lifts his lip in a sneer, but makes no other comment. 

Castiel turns on his heel and walks back to his room. He wants to rant and rave, wants to scream at the sky at the injustice of it all. He was happy at Lawrence High. He enjoyed his work, enjoyed the students, enjoyed his co-workers. 

For a few months, he was happy. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. He was happy, and it’s over. He lost his job, his friends, Dean, all in the space of a few weeks. All that remains is himself and his family. The former has never helped him and the latter...The latter has never been anything less than a stone around his neck. 

Castiel looks around his room before picking up a box. He moves slowly around the perimeter, picking things which will not be missed. He loads up the box, feeling the chasm open up more with every item he packs away. This is what he wanted. This is what he earned. 

Such is life. 

\--

He wants, more than anything else, to talk to Dean, to explain himself to Dean. It takes every fiber of his self-control to restrain himself. He saw the look in Dean’s eyes that last day in his house, saw the barely restrained hatred. He felt the contempt in Dean’s touch. He needs to explain himself to Dean. More than any wish of his, Dean deserves to know the truth. 

But to see the disgust in Dean’s face, to hear from those lips which he’s kissed so often, how truly Dean hates him...Dean called him a coward that day. He wasn’t wrong. 

Castiel wastes time and watches the month of May waste away into nothing. Meg gives him up as a lost cause and says nothing. She does drop by for lunch more often than not. Castiel recognizes this as a gesture of kindness, but doesn’t comment on it. Meg does not often deign to kindness, and he’s not in a position where he can refuse kindness. 

Balthazar is more direct. 

“Please come out with me,” he asks one Friday afternoon. “I literally can’t bear it, you moping around. I understand that you’re upset,” he shrugs when Castiel shoots a sharp glance in his direction, “but staying at home by yourself and thinking about how sad you are isn’t going to improve your situation.” 

“And getting drunk with you will?” 

Castiel loves Balthazar, he does. Even though the physical aspects of their relationship have faded, he still counts the man as one of his closest friends. It’s just that Balthazar’s methods of problem solving aren’t necessarily the methods which Castiel finds most helpful. 

“It certainly couldn’t make you any worse off. Look, worst case scenario, you go out, get sloshed, I call you an Uber, but you got to be happy for a brief moment. You take some painkillers and wake up the next morning with a hell of a hangover. Best case scenario, you find someone who isn’t a massive tool, and _they_ call you an Uber, preferably to their place, and then you take some painkillers in their bathroom in the morning.” 

“Well.” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. “As thrilling as that sounds, I’d rather just spend the night at home catching up on some reading.” 

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “God, but you are dull Cassie.” 

And so the long days of May stretch out, until Castiel is ragged at the edges, until he’s a moment away from fraying apart. Every day is torture, when he has to deal with his students and his co-workers all wishing him well. Every room is splashed with the memory of Dean, and he keeps on seeing the man in the corners of his vision and when he closes his eyes. 

Graduation morning dawns and Castiel is barely keeping himself together. He has to talk to Dean. He knows it. He can’t eat, he can’t sleep, he can barely read three words on a page before his mind spirals down through the possibilities and the maybes. 

He’ll never get Dean back. He knows that, and the knowledge is a cold stone that he carries with him always. He’ll never be free of it, never escape the certainty that the universe had seen fit to give him the most precious gift and he’d squandered it away. But even if he’ll never get to hold Dean, touch him, kiss him, even if he’ll never even be able to talk to him as an equal--Dean deserves the truth. 

Castiel waits for his moment all through graduation. He claps for his students and smiles when they walk across the stage, but he can barely take his eyes off of Dean. The moment that the recessional ends, Dean bolts towards the parking lot, but Castiel, who had been expecting a move such as this, is hot on his trail. He catches up to Dean at the Impala and prepares to pour his heart out to the other man, prepares to say that _Yes, I lied, but there was a reason for it, there’s always a reason, I was never going to leave you, I never could leave you, and please, please, take me back--_

And then he stands there, stupefied, as Dean shreds him into nothing. 

He’d thought that he’d been hurt before, hearing Dean slam Dick’s words back at him, hearing Dean’s opinion of him, but to hear Dean say _Goodbye Cas_ , in the tone that sounds like a door slamming shut, to see the finality in Dean’s eyes and know that this was his final chance...Dean leaves, the Impala roaring behind him. Castiel can’t help but think that there’s something triumphant in the sound. 

He thought that he’d known pain before. April, Dick, his family--he thought that he’d understood pain, but he wasn’t prepared for the chasm to open in his chest. He wasn’t prepared for the sheer agony of feeling torn asunder. He manages to make it back to his house, somehow, and breaks into the scotch. 

Dean might like to pretend that he has a monopoly on unhealthy coping mechanisms, but little does he know, Castiel wrote the manual. His alcohol is just a little more expensive than Dean’s. Still, thirty year scotch does the job just as well as seven day old rotgut, and after four (five? Castiel stopped counting) glasses, his head spins. The room turns white and hazy at the edges. Castiel likes it that way. It’s softer than the real world. Gentler. If this were the kind of world that he lived in every day, then he might have been able to convince Dean to listen to him, might have been able to tell him the truth. 

Castiel only realizes that he’s slumped against the kitchen wall when he sits up straight, stricken by a burst of inspiration. Maybe it’s not too late. Face to face would have been preferable, of course, but the wonders of technology still allow him to reach Dean. 

He has no way of guaranteeing that his words will reach Dean. He knows Dean’s temper, knows its strength and virility. He knows that the force of that anger is turned on him. All he can do is hope that Dean will look beyond his rage and hurt and remember what they once were. Not what they had the potential to become--Castiel’s breath catches in his throat at the thought of it. Not that then, but before. When they were friends, when there was no one else in the world that Castiel trusted more than Dean. If Dean can bring it in him to remember that, then Castiel might still have a chance. 

He seizes his laptop and opens his email. Unburdened by the barrier of his mouth, his fingers fly across the keyboard. He puts everything that he never said to Dean in that email.

First and foremost, he gives the truth of the job offer, in as plain as terms as he can summon with his muddled brain. It seems so simple to him now, in hindsight: Michael cut Anna’s insurance, forcing Castiel to put her on his insurance. It turned out to be too much. His insurance from Douglas County schools can’t begin to touch the bills for her care or her medication. At the rate he was going, even if he sold his house and most of his possessions, he would still be bankrupt within the year, and Anna would be in the same predicament. 

He could have always let Anna fend for herself. It was what Michael had urged him to do. Every medication program that she undertook, every counselor that she saw--it never seemed to stick. Perhaps Castiel was beggaring himself for a lost cause. But even knowing that--she’s his sister. Turning his back on her was never an option. If Dean understands anything, surely he will understand this, the necessity of putting a sibling’s well being ahead of his, even if it ended up destroying everyone around him. 

He’d sent a letter to Northwestern, of course he had. He still had contacts there, professors and advisers who remembered him kindly. But that was always the safety choice. He approached the University of Kansas first and when they accepted him, he never looked back. 

He wanted a job in Lawrence. He’d never wanted to leave Dean. He’d thought, foolish, stupid man, that he could have everything: Anna safe and well looked after, a job which was fulfilling and allowed him to take care of his family, Dean still in his life. 

Instead, he lost everything. 

Castiel doesn’t stop typing until his fingers have gone numb and the lines of text have filled up the screen. He doesn’t proofread, too convinced that he’ll manage to talk himself out of sending the letter. He pushes the ‘send’ button and, his task completed, promptly passes out. 

\--

The next morning, Castiel awakes with a throbbing headache, a queasy stomach, and the lingering feel of regret pumping through his body. He pushes himself up into a sitting position. Every muscle and bone in his body protests at being forced to lie on a hard floor and Castiel knows that these aches will linger through the day. 

Realization comes back to him in fits and starts. The knowledge only increases the sick feeling in his belly. What the fuck did he do last night? His phone remains thankfully on the opposite side of the room and a swift glance through his recent messages tells him that he was spared the indignity of drunk texting. He thinks back to his mood last night and his stomach squirms in discomfort. God, if he’d managed to get in touch with Dean last night...What kind of drivel would he have spilled? 

His relief is short-lived, however, when he spies his laptop next to him. One touch brings the screen to life, on the last page which he left it: his email. Castiel’s stomach sinks in horror as he flips through his sent folder. 

It’s worse than a drunk text. At the very least, a drunk text is short. This...this lingers on for pages, the most self-serving, sanctimonious prose that he could have ever composed. If he ever wanted Dean to understand him, god, maybe even forgive him...Castiel winces as he reads through it again. 

His eyes fall to the last lines. _If I don’t hear from you...then I’ll know._

His life has taught him to never hope, but Castiel can’t help the small nugget taking hold in his belly. Maybe Dean will read the letter and take mercy on him. Maybe, just maybe…

The rest of May trickles away, sands through an hourglass. Dean doesn’t contact him. 

The nugget of hope withers and fades until it’s like it was never there at all. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_**June** _

Normally he doesn’t smoke in bed, but it’s been a very bad few weeks. Besides, Castiel thinks, looking over to his side, it’s not the first rule that he’s broken tonight. 

Meg reaches over him, her hand resting on his thigh for balance, and plucks the joint from his fingers with practiced ease. The tip burns bright red as she inhales. She returns the joint back to Castiel as twin plumes of smoke curl delicately from her nostrils. He takes another hit, his back against the headboard. 

He hadn’t intended this, god knows he hadn’t. Meg had come over earlier in the night and banged her fist on his front door until he’d finally opened it. She’d been incandescent in her wrath, her hands curled into tiny fists as she’d advanced on him. 

“The hell have you been doing for the past three weeks?” she asked. Her index finger pushed into his sternum, to the point where Castiel was convinced he would bear bruises. “You don’t call, you don’t write?” 

“I’ve been busy,” Castiel said. He winces as Meg cast a jaundiced eye around his living room. Pizza boxes and takeout containers litter his kitchen and his coffee table and now that he introduced fresh air into the equation, he could tell that there was a definite funk in the house. 

“Yeah, sure. Busy.” Meg glared at him, daring him to defy her, but Castiel kept his mouth shut. Perhaps if he played meek and mild long enough, she would leave and he could get back to the business of being miserable. “Whatever.” Meg looked him up and down, taking in his stained t-shirt and worn sweats. “Get your ass into the shower Milton.” 

He’d rather swallow his tongue than admit she was right, but when he emerged from the shower, skin pink and flushed, hair damp, Castiel felt almost like himself. Meg was in the kitchen and the scent of reheated Chinese food permeated the room. 

“I almost tried to cook something for you, but.” Meg shrugged. A raised eyebrow and a lift of her lips invited him to participate in their game. 

Castiel tried, he really did. He was halfway through delivering a witty retort, when his words failed him and, to his everlasting horror, a harsh sob broke through his throat. Meg’s mouth dropped open in horror as Castiel buried his face in his hands. All he could think was _Dean used to cook me dinner_. 

Even though she’s about as cuddly as a piranha, Meg is still a damn good friend, as evidenced by her awkward attempt at a hug. Castiel buried his face into the crook of her neck, his torso shaking with the force of his shuddering breaths. Meg’s hands moved up and down his back in soothing strokes as Castiel choked on the words fighting to get out of his mouth. 

Somewhere, in the midst of that, his lips found the soft skin of Meg’s neck. “Bad idea Clarence,” she said, fingernails digging into the nape of his neck in warning. “You don’t really want this.” 

“No,” Castiel muttered, his hands pulling her closer in spite of himself. “No. Please.” 

Which led to a messy push and pull, which brought them to his bedroom. There’s no joy to be found there. He falls into Meg the way that he fell into the thirty year scotch, the way that other men fall into despair. It’s a fierce descent, one carved with nails and teeth, and even though he hates it, Castiel still falls. When he comes, it’s with his eyes closed. A harsh sob breaks from his throat, euphoria tainted with despair until it’s all he can taste. He collapses into the bed, trembling. 

His hand stretches out towards the drawer, seeking comfort of another kind. He inhales and something in him relaxes as the smoke burns a path down his throat and into his lungs. It’s a superficial comfort, but it’s comfort nonetheless. Castiel’s mind is pleasantly fuzzy. If he doesn’t have a clear thought again, then he’ll be fine with that outcome. 

After he’s burned the joint down to almost nothing, Meg plucks it from his grip. She licks her fingers and pinches the cherry to extinguish it before turning her attention to him. “Spill,” she commands. 

The tone in her voice leaves no room for obfuscation, but Castiel tries anyway. At his first stammer, Meg reaches out and pinches the meat of his inner thigh. “Christ!” he hisses, shoving her hand away. 

“Well, don’t bullshit me.” Meg pushes herself into a sitting position. The sheet pools around her waist, but Castiel is more interested in the steel of her eyes. “Look Clarence, I’m not complaining about the way that the night turned out, because just between you and me, it’s been a minute, but…” She purses her lips as she makes a decision, then continues speaking. “You’re hurting and as much as I want to keep up my reputation of being a stone cold bitch, I actually don’t like seeing you this way.” 

Castiel means to offer up a meaningless platitude. He doesn’t mean to offer up the whole, gory story. Meg’s told him time and time again that she’s not his therapist, and Castiel has taken her at her word. He doesn’t want to pour out the story, but as soon as he opens his mouth, that’s exactly what happens. 

Meg listens with her chin pillowed on her hand. Halfway through the story she gets up to rummage through one of his drawers and comes back dressed in one of his sweatshirts. Castiel barely notices, he’s so caught up in recounting the story of his and Dean’s implosion. 

At the end, Meg whistles lowly. “So that’s why you’ve done your best Salinger impersonation over the past few weeks? I don’t blame you.” Castiel curls his lip in a faint warning, but Meg ignores the weak threat. “Cas, sweetiepie, you like to play the ice queen card, but I think that this whole encounter proves that one a big fat lie.” 

He can’t deny it, so he doesn’t even try. Instead, he slumps down into the pillows and tries not to look like a sulky boy. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt,” he says. His fingers pick at the hem of his sheets. “It just...it went wrong halfway through. By the time I realized, it was too late to fix.” Castiel drops his face into his hands, fingers twisting in his hair until bright pain lances through his scalp. “And I knew that I couldn’t fix it but I just kept on anyway--” His inhalations rasp through his shaking body. “He said that I just used people.” The words come out in a shameful mumble. 

Meg pauses for a moment too long before she answers. “Clarence, what do you think we’re doing right now?” Castiel looks at her wry smile. “You’re using me and I’m using you, and the only difference between us and you and Dean is that I fell into your bed with my eyes open.” 

“Don’t,” Castiel snaps, his voice sharp. “Don’t make it sound like that.” Meg tilts her head questioningly. “I don’t...I’m not that person,” he insists, twisting the sheets in his fist. “I don’t just use people--I don’t use you and I sure as hell didn’t use Dean. I, I…” He knows what he wants to say, knows if he’d said those three little words earlier then maybe he’d be lying in bed with Dean rather than with Meg, but he still chokes on the syllables. 

“Maybe you’re right.” Meg tugs gently on his hair, bringing Castiel’s head around to look at her. “There’s another difference between Dean and me. In a few minutes, you know what I’m going to do?” Castiel lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m going to get out of bed, take a shower, and get back into my clothes. Maybe I’ll kiss you at the door. Probably won’t, but either way, I’m still leaving.”

“I assume you’re coming to some sort of point.” 

“Yeah.” Meg’s fingers twist in his hair as an admonishment. “The point is that we’re not going to cuddle and fall asleep together. I’m sure as hell not going to cook you breakfast. Because yeah, I am using you, and you’re using me.” She gives him a loaded look. “That’s not saying that you use everyone.” 

Castiel remembers those mornings, the peace he found in waking next to a warm body. There was comfort in being held, in holding. Dean always seemed to cling so tightly, no matter whether he was plastered against Castiel’s back, or if Castiel was at his. And perhaps Castiel had grown complacent in the strength of Dean’s arms. He’d thought that someone who held on that tightly would never let go. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_**July** _

Castiel returns to maintaining a regular hygiene routine. He doesn’t become a social butterfly, but then again, he never was. Instead, he goes to KU and focuses his energy on setting up his office. The bookshelves look woefully bare, as does his desk. He doesn’t have any pictures of family to display. There was a time when he envisioned a desk full of pictures: vacations and holidays, and maybe, Christ, maybe children…

Castiel shakes his head and boots up his computer. While he’s here, he might as well start tweaking his syllabus. 

He goes home and moves through his house like a ghost. He puts food in the microwave and eats it, even though it tastes like cardboard. He falls asleep on his couch and wakes at five in the morning with an aching back. He drags himself to bed, even as the grey light of the pre-dawn filters through his blinds, and he falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes hours later, reaching out for a body that isn’t there. The empty place in his chest aches; the pain hasn’t dulled. 

“Tell him that you haven’t moved,” Meg says, her dark eyes concerned as she takes in the dark circles under his eyes. “At least tell him that.” 

“No,” Castiel says. He might be a poor excuse for a friend and a lover, but he can obey this one last request. “If Dean read my letter then he knows how I feel. If he hasn’t contacted me…” Castiel swallows the bitter taste in the back of his mouth and forces his lips to move into something approximating a smile. “Well, then I know how he feels.” 

“And if he didn’t read your letter?” Meg’s voice is tinged with impatience. 

Castiel’s face remains in the same awful, rictus smile. “Well, that tells me pretty clearly how he feels, doesn't it?” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_**August** _

He knows that he’s being punished. It’s no less than he deserves, but Castiel can’t help but begin to buckle under the misery of it. Every day resembles the next, in an endless cycle of rinse and repeat until he’s worn thin and bare. 

A visit with Anna provides the only bright spot in a sweltering month. She looks well, better than she had the last time that he saw her. Her eyes and skin are bright, her cheeks are full, and her nervous hands are calm and still in her lap. When she speaks, her sentences string together in a cohesive line. She shows him her new artwork and Castiel admires the clean lines and clear, bright colors of her paintings. A faint smear of paint decorates her cheekbone and her fingers are smudged from sketching. Her small apartment is tidy and fresh food sits in her fridge. 

She takes his hand before he leaves and squeezes his fingers tight. “You’re all right?” she asks. 

Castiel smiles like he always does. It feels like a lie, like it always does, but at least this time, there's some comfort in it. He looks at his sister, safe and comfortable, calm in a way that she hasn’t been in years. What’s his own happiness compared to that?

\--

Castiel begins his first round of classes. It’s easier than he might have suspected. Contrary to Lawrence High, the students in his World History I class want to be there, or at least have paid to be there. They’re quiet while he introduces the class and their questions are on topic and relevant. While there’s quiet grumbling and sighs when he gives out assignments, it’s not compared to the wailing and complaining when he gave assignments in his high school government class. 

His office hours are quiet affairs, at least for the month of August. No doubt, once the semester picks up its pace there will be more students crowding his space, begging for extensions or help. But for now, it’s just him and the calm strains of the radio floating through his space. 

A knock on the door disturbs his peace. Expecting a student, Castiel looks up with a greeting already on his lips. It dies when he sees the figure of Sam Winchester standing in the doorway. 

“Your office hours are posted on your page,” Sam says casually. His whole posture is casual. He leans against the frame like he belongs there, arms crossed across his chest. “Is now a good time?”

Before, Castiel would count Sam Winchester as one of his closest friends. He’s shared meals with the man, laughed with him, drank with him, danced at his wedding. One thing that he either forgot or never took into account, is how _large_ Sam is. Despite their difference in age, Sam towers over him, and it was never a problem before, but now, with Sam’s face twisted in anger, it seems like it might become a problem. 

“Sam,” Castiel stammers out. It takes him long seconds to gather his composure and when he says, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he knows from the look on Sam’s face that he failed. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here either,” Sam says, voice still deceptively calm. “Mostly because from all accounts, we heard that you had moved to Chicago.” He steps forward and closes the office door behind him. It’s not a threatening gesture in and of itself, and Castiel knows, in his rational brain, that Sam isn’t actually going to hurt him, but he can’t help the small frisson of anxiety rippling down his spine. 

“So imagine my surprise,” still in that kindly, patient tone, “when one of the interns in the office starts raving about the new professor in the history department. Professor Milton says this, Professor Milton made this joke.” Sam shrugs. “All your information is up on the KU page, if you look.” 

“So what do you expect from me?” Castiel asks. He has to tilt his head up to see Sam’s face. Among his many talents, the younger Winchester can count looming. 

“You asshole,” and for the first time, real anger colors Sam’s voice, “you complete and utter prick. Do you have any idea what you did?” Castiel’s chest twists and he can’t speak, but that’s all right, because Sam is more than willing to speak for the both of them. “He’s miserable, you know that? It’s Dean, he doesn’t tell us anything, but you can see it in his eyes. Whenever he goes somewhere, he’s always looking for you. He’s drinking more, he fucked off for a whole month because he couldn’t deal--”

Castiel inhales; since when has breathing hurt this badly? Sam ignores him. “So I was already pissed at you for that, but now I find out that you even lied to him about moving? What, were you afraid that you were going to have to see what you’d done? Did you just like jerking him around?” Sam’s voice rises. Castiel is thankful for the closed door. “He loved you, you complete bastard, he _loved_ you, and you threw him away like he was nothing--” 

“That’s not true.” Castiel rises. He’s not aware that his hands are clenched into fists until he deliberately relaxes them. White-hot pain stabs through his chest and stomach and it makes his breath catch in his chest, but he doesn’t falter. “You can say that I’m a bastard and an asshole, and you can say that I was cruel, and you can say that I lied. That’s all true and I won’t try to defend against it. But you don’t you ever, _ever_ ,” Castiel’s voice cracks, “say that I threw him away, or that I didn’t care because it’s _not_ true and it’ll never _be_ true.” 

His chest heaves and a faint ringing sound echoes through his ears. Tiny tremors skirt through his body and set his hands to shaking. He thinks that he might vomit. 

Sam’s face is still set in anger, but there’s a thoughtfulness to it as well. The latter brings pause to both of them, enough so that when Sam speaks again, the edge of rage is vanished from his voice. “So why did you lie to Dean?”

Castiel’s fingernails dig into the vulnerable flesh of his palm. “I never told him that I was looking for another job or that I got another job. If you want to call that a lie, then call it a lie. It was as good as one. But the day that he found that letter...I never got a chance to tell him that I wasn’t moving. It was…” Castiel looks away from Sam’s face, so oddly compassionate in the face of his anger. “I never got a chance to tell him that day. After that well...Dean was disinclined to talk to me.” 

“How the hell did it get so bad between you two?” 

Castiel traces a line in the wood grain of his desk to avoid looking at Sam. “Because I was too stupid to realize what I had when I had it. And by the time that I figured it out, he wanted nothing to do with me.” 

Sam’s head inclines, a bare acknowledgment of Castiel’s words.“Well, it’s Dean, so I’m sure that you weren’t completely to blame.” He notices Castiel’s surprise and hastens to explain. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re mostly to blame. But nothing falls apart without two people to help it.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “Dean didn’t...He didn’t do anything. The only mistake he made was trying to get involved with me.” 

Sam’s mouth twists in a frown. He’s obviously waiting for an explanation, but Castiel has no intention of giving him one. “What are you going to do?” he asks instead. Sam blinks at him. Whether he’s playing dumb or genuinely doesn’t know what Castiel is asking, is up for debate. “What are you going to tell Dean?”

Sam blinks before drawing himself up. His eyes flick up and down Castiel in cool calculation. “I guess that depends on you.” 

For a moment, Castiel considers the easy path. _Tell him_ , he would say, _tell him and help me make this right. Help me set things back the way that they should be, please, please help me get my life back_. Sam would do it--not for him, but for Dean’s sake, but it really wouldn’t matter in the end. Castiel would have Dean back, would have--

Lazy evenings spent watching trash television that he hated but that Dean loved, long slow kisses on the couch with no real goal other than mapping out previously discovered territory. Mornings spent waking up next to someone else and bickering over the bathroom sink, toilet and shower. Quick kisses that taste of coffee, promises for dinner. Anniversaries, holidays, and birthdays, vacations and just the pleasure of everyday living. He would get to see the wrinkles form at the corners of Dean’s eyes, see his hair silver at his temples. 

But that’s the selfish future, the one that doesn’t take Dean’s wishes into account. _We’re done_ , he’d said, that day in the kitchen, and Castiel hadn’t listened, not at first, but he’s listening now. This is the last thing he can do for Dean and Dean has asked him for so little. 

“Don’t tell him.” Sam blinks in surprise. “He thinks that I moved. Let him keep thinking that.” 

“You’re not just hurting yourself,” Sam says. He’s a good lawyer, and Castiel would know, having Michael and Lucas both in the family. His argument strikes exactly where Castiel is weak. “You’re hurting Dean.” For the first time, Sam’s mask falters and Castiel remembers that he’s only a few years out of boyhood. “Please. Fix this. He’s…” Sam runs his fingers through his hair in obvious frustration. “He was _better_ with you. Happier, kinder. For the first time, he was thinking about a future. A future with _you_. Don’t throw that away. For either of you.”

“I can’t,” Castiel confesses. The words croak out of him, small and broken, because he is small and broken. “Sam, I gave Dean opportunities to get in touch with me, and he turned each and every one of them down. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, and honestly, it’s for the best. So please...Let this go. If you give it time, Dean will get over...everything. He’ll meet someone new. He’ll settle down and that future that you wanted for him? They’ll still happen. Just with someone who actually deserves him.” Each syllable rips into him on its way out and Castiel spits them bloody onto the floor, for Sam Winchester to examine at their leisure. 

Something in his face must tell Sam of the finality of his decision. The younger Winchester’s jaw sets and he surprisingly sticks his hand across the desk for Castiel to shake. 

“If that’s really what you want,” he begins. His handshake is firm, steadfast. It’s everything that Castiel would expect from him. “I think that you’re making the wrong decision, but it’s not my place to fix things anymore.” The expression that crosses his face could almost be a smile. “I still hate you for what you did to my brother. But I hope everything works out for you Cas.” 

“Thank you Sam,” Castiel answers. He swallows down everything else other than goodwill. He’s not allowed to feel grief for the loss of Sam’s friendship. He gave that up when he gave Dean up. 

Sam leaves, quieter than he entered, and Castiel slumps back into his chair. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

_**September** _

It doesn’t get better. Castiel wasn’t expecting it to, but it’s still disheartening. 

He likes his classes and he enjoys preparing his lectures, but it doesn’t bring him happiness. He receives a painting from Anna and hangs it in his living room in a place of honor, but it doesn’t bring him joy. 

He meets and becomes acquaintances with other professors in his building. There’s Hannah, who is a member of the Religious Studies faculty, and she introduces him to Pamela Barnes, who is filling in for a member of the Psychology Department while he’s on sabbatical. They’re not what he would call friends, but he enjoys the times that he spends with them, even if Pam does eye him up and down like he’s a particularly succulent piece of meat. 

It would be easier for him if it were only his body that Pam was interested in. Unfortunately for him, it’s something much more intimate that is her ultimate goal. She springs it on him late one afternoon, when the building has all but emptied out. 

“You’re here late,” she introduces herself. She’s in her street clothes, just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt small enough that it rides up to reveal several inches of toned, tanned skin at her waist. 

“Well, there’s work to be done,” Castiel says, smiling politely. 

“Can’t help but notice that you’re here late a lot of nights.” 

“There’s a lot of work.” 

“You know,’ Pamela says, walking into his office like it’s her name on the door, “I’m only an adjunct here. Teaching isn’t enough to pay the bills, so I still keep a practice in town.” 

“That must keep you stretched pretty thin.” 

“It does, but that’s not why I mention it.” Pamela hesitates, for the first time since Castiel was introduced to her. “Look, it might not be my place, but you seem like a good person and despite your anti-social tendencies, you’re funny and good company when you actually let yourself have fun, so here goes. I offer counseling services in my practice.”

“I would assume so.” Castiel thinks that he knows the point which Pamela is driving at, but he’ll be damned if he gets there first. 

“Smartass.” Pamela smiles. “Look angel-eyes, not for nothing, but I think you could really stand to come in for an appointment one day.” 

Castiel stiffens and doesn’t look up from the paper that he’s currently demolishing. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Pamela scoffs at him. “Sure you are. Have you noticed that your suits don’t fit as well as they used to? It’s because you’ve lost weight recently, which I’m sure you were aware of, because you’re doing fine.” Castiel bristles, but Pamela continues. “The bags under your eyes are almost designer at this point, which makes sense because from where I’m standing you spend more time in your office here than you do in your house, but yeah, you’re doing fine. You don’t go out with us, which would be understandable if you were socializing with someone who wasn’t an employee or student of the school. Too bad that’s not the case. But you’re doing fine.” 

“I assume that you’re arriving at a point sometime today?” By this point, Castiel has given up all pretense of civility, which is fine by him. As far as he’s concerned, Pam started it. 

“Hon, we started at the point. You may think that you’re doing fine, but you’re drowning. Look, you don’t have to talk to me, but I really think that you’d benefit from talking to someone.” She drops a card onto Castiel’s desk, where he can’t help but notice it. “Think about it, would you?”

She’s headed towards the door before Castiel has the chance to pick his jaw up off the floor. “Don’t work too hard,” she tells him, and then she’s gone. 

Castiel picks up the card and looks at it, before setting it back down again. 

He’s never needed someone to talk to before, he sure as hell doesn’t need it now. 

Out of curiosity, however, he picks up the card up again. 

\--

One night, Castiel rationally decides that he’s going to lance this misery out of himself, like medieval butchers with a boil. He’s been ignoring his misery for so long and that’s only seemed to have given it extra permissions and rights. Perhaps the thing to do is attack it head on in a bout of furious catharsis. 

So he sits at his kitchen table, grabs a beer and a notepad, and starts to write. He’s not fully conscious of what he’s scribbling until he looks at the first few lines. 

_If I could go back and tell you how much you mean to me, then I would. Every day I wake up and miss you. Every time I hear a song on the radio, I think about how you looked when you listened to it. Your laugh echoes through my house. I still smell you on the sheets. If I try hard enough, I can see your shadow on the wall. It’s been months and it’s not better and I hate feeling like this, like I lost a limb, or an organ. Something vital.  
I love you. I loved you from the first second that I sat in your car and you played your music for me. I loved you then and I never stopped loving you. If I could, I’d tell you that I love you, every morning, every afternoon, and every evening. I’d tell you when I woke up and before I went to bed. I love you. I love you. I love you._

Castiel’s feet take him to his bed and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

\--

In the morning, Castiel stumbles back into the kitchen. He’s late for his classes, dressed in the cleanest shirt and pants he could find. There’s no time for breakfast, but that’s fine because he couldn’t possibly bring himself to eat. He grabs his beige trenchcoat, tattered old friend that it is, and shrugs into it. 

Before he leaves, Castiel glances towards his table. The rumpled piece of paper sits innocently on its surface, as innocuous as a sleeping viper. Castiel picks it up. He barely remembers what he wrote the previous night, but his memory comes back as he scans over the paper. As he takes in the words, his stomach clenches. 

The only thing to be thankful for is that, unlike his email of several months ago, this missive never reached Dean. It’s the one bright spot in his misery. The email was bad enough, but at least that still had some pride to it. This, this sniveling, pathetic monument to his grief...Castiel balls up the paper. 

His hand jerks towards the trashcan, but he just shoves the crumpled paper deep into his pocket. His fingers brush against something else in his pocket. The corner digs into his knuckle and he hisses in annoyance before snatching the offending article out of his pocket. 

It’s Pam’s business card. He wasn’t aware that he’d even put it into his pocket. Castiel’s upper lip curls in a dismissive sneer, but it’s an automatic gesture, not a heartfelt one. The expression fades the longer he looks at the card. 

Such a simple thing. Just her name, _Dr. Pamela Barnes_ , followed by an address and a phone number. Castiel runs his thumbs over the embossed words. They catch against the pad, like they’re begging for even more of his attention. 

He thinks of the sleepless nights, the bagginess of his pants, the gap of his shirts. The emptiness of his pantry. The only thing which gets replenished on a regular basis is his liquor supply. He’s circling the drain; he knows it. 

On his way to the university, Castiel dials the number on the card. He listens to the phone ring twice before a coolly neutral female voice picks up on the other end. 

“Dr. Barnes’ office, how can I help you?” 

Castiel’s mouth goes dry as a strangled noise comes out of his larynx. For a moment he considers hanging up and shredding the card, throwing the pieces as far away from him as he can muster, and never thinking about the affair again. But then he thinks about the email he sent and the letter still burning in his pocket. Most of all, he thinks about one Saturday morning. 

It was early March and the weather was the kind of cold that seeped in through the walls and windows, the kind of cold that not even blankets or the full blast of Dean’s heating could fight. Castiel had woken early, but he hadn’t minded. Not when he could look next to him and see Dean’s sleeping profile. 

He looked younger in his sleep. The tense, stern lines of his face faded away, and his mouth turned slack and sweet. A surge of warmth, unrelated to the mass of blankets atop them, beat through him as he propped himself up on his elbow to get a better look at Dean. The cold bites at his bare shoulders but he’ll pay that price just to trace the line of Dean’s lips with his thumb. 

His touch becomes more presumptuous as his fingers wander over the rough patch of Dean’s cheek and the sharp cut of his jaw. Dean stirred under his fingers, eyelashes fluttering on his cheek as he rose back into wakefulness. “Cas?” he asked, voice delightfully sleep-rough. 

Castiel smiled, unable to stop the soaring feeling in his chest. In that moment, when Dean’s mouth split into a lazy, pleased smile, and his hand came up to card through Castiel’s hair--Castiel’s heart could have burst open at that moment and he would have been fine. 

It’s the knowledge of what he lost which prompts him to find his voice and say, “Yes, I was wondering if I could schedule an appointment with Dr. Barnes for later this week?”

 

\--

Three days later, Castiel sits in Pamela’s office. He’s unable to stop himself from fidgeting in the armchair. Her dark eyes look through him and for once her expression is serious. 

“So,” she finally says, crossing her legs at the knee. “Where would you like to start?” 

There are so many places to choose from. His father, Michael, Lucas, Anna, April, Dick--any and all of those provide more than enough fodder to fill up an entire counseling session. But Castiel knows where this story begins. 

“There was a man,” he says, voice cracking at first. It gains strength the longer he speaks. “His name was Dean. And I loved him.” He pauses for a moment. “And I love him.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	24. walk me down your broken line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation, or three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for everyone who's commented and flailed at me. I know that I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I promise, after this, the angst-o-meter lightens up a little. Stay with me! I promised a happy ending and a happy ending you shall have!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean’s read stories about men in the heat of battle who received their deathblows and continued fighting on, even as their mortality leaked onto the ground below. At the time, Dean wondered at their commitment and their resolve. What was the point in continuing, after you knew you were dead? 

Now, he thinks he might understand. 

He’s sticken, wounded, the kind of hurt that people don’t come back from, the kind of hurt that they carry with them the rest of their lives. Everything else fades: the students, the buildings, the world. All that remains is him and Castiel. Castiel, who looks like he’s seen a ghost, Castiel, who he thought was gone forever, Castiel, _Cas_ \--

He can’t help but think that this is some sick joke, but no, because his feet are taking him closer and closer to Castiel and no one is laughing, no one jumps out at him and shouts “Surprise!”

_What the hell, what the hell_ , repeats endlessly in Dean’s mind, a helpless refrain as his feet move, one step after the other. Castiel never moves, save for the spasm of his fingers on the folders he’s holding. For once, Cas’ face is an open book, but Dean can’t read the language of him anymore. It doesn’t matter--The slow, lingering agony of summer, the simmering anger still burning beneath his skin, the betrayal, the abandonment--Castiel is here, standing in front of him, close enough to touch, close enough to strike. 

“Cas.” The word escapes Dean’s lips, soft as a sigh. “ _Cas_ \--”

“Dean?” Lydia’s light voice acts like a slap. Dean tears his eyes away from Castiel’s face. It feels like ripping flesh from bone. He looks behind him. Lydia walks up, dressed in a long, flowing skirt and a light blouse. Her dark blonde hair drifts over her shoulders. Some of it is tangled in the strap of her bag. She’s lovely in the late afternoon sun, smiling like a vision. “Hey, I was wondering where you were…” 

Lydia glances between Dean and Castiel and her voice trails off. Castiel’s face is still frozen in shock and his eyes flick back and forth between Dean and Lydia. Dean can’t quite tell what the expression on his face shows, but his guess is that it’s nothing good. 

It’s so similar to that moment, years ago, when Dean first met Castiel that, if he were capable, he would laugh. After everything they’ve done, to come back to the same starting point, except this time it’s Lydia asking for him instead of Lisa and instead of anger on Castiel’s face...Dean leans to the side, his body moving automatically, and Lydia plants a swift kiss to the corner of his mouth. Like a magnet, Dean’s eyes are drawn to Castiel, even as he feels the warmth of Lydia’s lips on his face. 

The vicious, hateful part of him rejoices at the swift blanch of Castiel’s face. It’s there and gone within the blink of an eye, but for just a moment, before he could control himself, Castiel’s face was a map of pain. 

“Hi,” Lydia says as she slots herself underneath Dean’s arm. His limb rests on her shoulder like a yoke. “It’s Professor Milton, right?” Her hand stretches out to meet Castiel’s, and Dean wants to slap it away. It feels wrong, these worlds colliding, like the tension coiling in him will burst into an explosion if these two people meet. 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, smooth, always so damn smooth, like he’s never had a problem, like he’s never been flayed alive and left behind. Lydia’s hand hangs in the air for a moment before Castiel reaches out to her and nothing bad happens, nothing explodes, except for the starburst of pain in Dean’s chest. 

“Some of the other department secretaries were talking about you. It’s good to finally meet you. Lydia Stapleton. I work with the Biology Department.” 

“It’s nice to meet you.” A shiver runs down Dean’s spine at the sound of Castiel’s voice. It hasn’t changed, still rough and gravely, and it hasn’t been that long, really it hasn’t, but it has--

“Do you two know each other?”

The pause following her question only lasts for a few seconds, but to Dean it feels like years. Does he know Cas? Once upon a time, he would have said yes, without question. But now--Does he know Cas? 

He can see Castiel opening his mouth to respond. “We used to work together,” Dean interrupts. Underneath his arm, Lydia stiffens at the harshness of his tone, but Dean can only stare at Castiel, daring him to contradict him. Castiel says nothing, though a shadow passes behind his eyes.

“Really?” Lydia’s eyes turn flinty, but her smile remains firmly in place as she says, “Dean and I were going to get a bite to eat. Why don’t you join us? I haven’t met many of Dean’s friends.” 

She has met exactly zero of his close friends. Dean’s face flinches at the sharp edge in her voice. Apparently it’s not fine that the paths haven’t crossed. 

Castiel’s eyes flick towards Dean. Dean meets his eyes and he remembers what it feels like to be drowning. “I don’t…” Castiel begins. 

Standing there, listening to Castiel get ready to make some bullshit excuse, is enough to make the world rush around Dean. For the first time since May, he feels alive and alert. Colors spring to life and he’s actually present in his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers. Every molecule of him vibrates, but it’s a sick, liquid feeling. This isn’t right, none of it--Lydia’s presence, Castiel’s silence, his placidity...None of it is as it should be. 

“I think that Professor Milton has somewhere else to be.” 

Dean’s tone is meant to be final, crushing. From Castiel’s barely perceptible flinch, Dean can tell that’s how he took it. But Lydia, unabashed, doesn’t take the hint. 

“Well, let him tell me that.” An unfamiliar edge slices through Lydia’s words, and it sets his hackles flaring. “Would you like to grab a bite with us? It’d be nice to talk with one of Dean’s friends.” 

Castiel opens his mouth but says nothing. He looks at Dean, helplessly, like he expects Dean to rescue him. If this were another time, if Dean were someone else not broken, he might even feel pity for Castiel. Now, however, he can’t help but admit that he enjoys watching him twist in the breeze. 

“I couldn’t intrude,” Castiel finally stammers. 

Dean hates him. He hates the quiver in Castiel’s voice, the uncertain flick of his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders. This isn’t his Cas, confident to the point of arrogance. Dean wants to dig his fingers into whoever this person is until either they’re destroyed or he discovers the real Cas, hiding underneath the facade. 

“If you’re not busy, then we insist.” Dean’s too jovial voice rings out false. His fingers grip Lydia’s shoulder perhaps a shade too tight, but it’s worth it to see the way that Castiel’s eyes linger on where their skin touches. “It’d be nice to catch up.” 

Castiel’s jaw clenches. Dean manages to stop his triumphant grin from spreading across his face because that, there, the flash and snap in Castiel’s eyes--That’s the Cas that he remembers. 

“How about I run over to the cafe and grab us a seat before it gets busy? It’ll give you two a chance to catch up.” 

Lydia slides out from underneath Dean’s arm. Her smile is incomprehensible. He knows that there’s something there, a current running swiftly under seeming calm water, but he can’t quite grab hold of it yet. But there’s no reason to fight her, at least none readily available, so he nods and drops a quick kiss onto her forehead. “See you in a few minutes,” he says, and Lydia disappears as suddenly as she arrived. 

Without her presence, the air thickens to the point where Dean can hardly breathe. Anticipation sparks and potential snaps. He looks at Castiel and Castiel looks back at him, and for a moment, Dean can pretend that it’s a year ago and they’re barely more than strangers, standing in the middle of Castiel’s classroom. 

“I need to go to my office.” Castiel’s voice breaks the spell and brings them back to the present. Dean hates him for ruining the illusion. “You’re welcome to come along.” 

“Can’t let you out of my sight,” Dean says, a sneer in his eyes and voice. “Otherwise you might disappear for several months.” 

In a clear display of temper, Castiel’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. For a moment, Dean thinks that he’s about to snap, but then he turns on his heel and stalks away. Dean follows him. Pressure builds in his chest and pushes up his throat, where he fears he might choke on it. To be this close, to have the door of his past ripped open after he was sure it was closed forever…

Castiel walks into a building and up a flight of stairs. Dean still follows, so closely that the tips of his shoes clip Castiel’s heels. Castiel leads him into a small, narrow room lined with bookshelves. A desk is at the opposite end of the room, underneath a large window. Sunlight slices through the blinds and provides the only light. Dean shuts the door behind him as he enters. 

Castiel jumps at the definitive thud of the door closing, but he keeps his back to Dean as he fiddles with the papers on his desk. Now that Dean isn’t paralyzed with shock, he can take in the small details, like how Castiel’s shirt, which used to fit his body perfectly, hangs loose at the elbow, or how the lines of his face have passed sharp and moved into the territory of gaunt. 

The silence stretches on, long past the point of discomfort. Dean revels in it at the same time that he wants to run from it. 

He’d dreamed of this moment, spinning it out with dozens of different outcomes. In some scenarios his fist had found its way into Cas’ face, until those beloved features were mangled beyond all recognition. In others, he’d left Cas devastated and bleeding from hundreds of verbal wounds. In yet others, he’d given up any pretense of rage and had instead clutched Cas close, pressing his lips to whatever part of him that he could reach. 

This is none of those. At least in his imagination, Cas looks at him. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” 

Dean is surprised at the rough and wrecked tone of his own voice. In his imaginings, he’d been suave and nonchalant. But here, facing Cas, Dean loses sight of everything else except for the traitorous beat of his heart urging him closer, closer, closer. 

Cas doesn’t answer him.

“You heard me. Were you ever going to tell me the truth? Or were you just going to sit here, laughing at me?” Castiel turns at that, a snarl already forming on his lips. “Was it a joke to you? Make me think that you’d moved away, just so you could see me--”

“How dare you,” Castiel interrupts, his voice dropping to the low, deadly tone that Dean’s only heard on a few rare occasions. “You think that this was easy for me? You think that this hasn’t been shredding me for months?”

“Like you give half a shit.” Castiel doesn’t move as Dean stalks towards him. “If you cared half as much as you claimed, then you would have told me the truth. You would have nutted up and said--”

“Damn you, I tried!” There’s a wild light in Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s blood sings in response. “I tried to tell you, time and time again, I _tried_ , but you wouldn’t listen! And you said,” Castiel points a shaking finger at him, his face twisted in fury and something resembling grief, “you _said_ that we were done, you said goodbye, you ignored me when I tried to tell you the truth, so don’t you dare tell me that I didn’t care or that I didn’t try, don’t you _dare_.”

The raw pain in Castiel’s voice knocks the vicious edge off of Dean’s anger. For a long moment, they stand almost pressed together, until Castiel breaks away. A muffled sound of frustration burbles up from his throat. Dean remembers the photographs then, the naked emotion, captured by a thoughtless lens, on Cas’ face, laid bare for Dean to peruse at his leisure. 

The sudden twist that his thoughts have taken is a little too close to forgiveness for Dean’s blood. He doesn’t like it. Caught for a response, Dean retreats to what he knows is true, and better yet, what he knows will wound. “Lying to someone is a hell of a way to show how much you care.” 

“What do you want from me?” Dean’s never heard Castiel sound like this, unhinged and fraying. “Yes, I _lied_! I lied and I hurt you, and if I could take it all back, then I would, but I _can’t_. All I can do is try to tell you the truth and hope--” Castiel’s teeth click together as his mouth snaps shut. He drags his eyes away from Dean and towards the window. At his sides, his fingers curl into fists. 

“I tried,” Castiel says quietly, after a few moments. “I tried to tell you, after I…” His voice falters and Dean watches the sharp bob of his swallow. “I don’t know what else I could have done, Dean.”

“When?” Dean’s voice is thick with incredulity. “When the hell did you ever try?”

“I tried the second that I knew how badly I’d erred, I tried at graduation, I sent you an email--”

Dean scoffs. At the sound, Castiel’s eyes shutter and become unreadable chips of ice. “That’s what you call trying? That’s your best effort?” Bitterness floods his mouth and he tastes bile in the back of his throat. “If you’d come to me, at the beginning, if you’d just told me the truth--what did I ever do that made you think that I wouldn’t listen?”

A spiteful smile twists at Castiel’s mouth. “It all sounds so simple now,” he murmurs. He turns and meets Dean’s eyes. Castiel still has the old magnetism and Dean’s still weak for it. And that’s the danger--he falls in deeper and deeper, and doesn’t realize that he’s drowning until his lungs have already filled with water. “Where were you when I needed to hear that?”

“I was right here.” Dean shuts down, remember his loneliness until his innards turn to steel. “Where were you?”

Castiel’s eyes close. Dean knows him well enough to recognize the gesture as one of defeat. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, and Dean wants nothing more than to go to him. He wants nothing more than to witness the pain on Castiel’s face. “So, is this goodbye?” 

How many times did Dean wish to have Cas in front of him once more? How many times have his arms ached with emptiness? How many nights has he lain awake, wanting only the comfort of Cas’ body next to him? _No_ , he yearns to say. _No, of course not. Come back, we can fix this, we can make it better than it ever was. Please--let’s make this right_. 

Dean searches for his previous rage, but finds only a lingering resentfulness. It hurts, _god_ , does it still hurt, but with Castiel here in front of him...Maybe it’s like his father said. Maybe he’s weak. Or maybe, he’s learned from his past. His rage is a swiftly burning match: he can’t hold onto it without causing himself some kind of pain. But even knowing that...He still can’t bring himself to forgive Castiel. 

Dean shakes his head. Without his knowledge, his feet have taken him closer to Cas, until all he has to do to touch him is stretch out his hand. His fingers brush against the cuff of Castiel’s shirt. 

“I don’t…I don’t think we can be friends.” Dean pulls his hand back close to his side. He wants, god does he _want_ , but what Dean wants and what he needs are often at separate ends of the spectrum. 

“I understand,” Castiel says. His voice is a low husk and it’s almost more than Dean can bear. He’s grateful when Castiel takes a step backward. “If it’s all the same to you,” and Castiel’s voice wobbles ever so slightly as he tries to regain his composure, “I don’t think that I’ll join you this evening.” 

“Right,” Dean says. He’d almost forgotten the reason that he was in Castiel’s office and had managed to put Lydia out of his mind altogether. “That’s fine. I’ll tell Lydia that something came up.” 

“Thank you.” The formality between them makes Dean want to tear his hair out. He takes a step backwards, towards the door. 

“All right. I’ll, uh--”

“Dean.” Cas’ voice has the power to stop him in his tracks, now and always. Dean abruptly stops his retreat. “Are you…” A war wages behind Castiel’s eyes, spilling over into the downturned corners of his mouth. “Are you at least happy?”

He knows what Missouri would say: _Tell the truth, even if it stings. A clean truth is better than a festering lie_. Dean thought that he’d gotten to the point where he could live those words. But that was before Cas, before his world was turned upside down once more. Dean can’t tell him the truth: that some days he reaches some emotion that he could call happiness, but those moments are fleeting and few. He can’t tell Cas that he still looks for him in every crowd, that he feels his absence most nights like a phantom limb, lingering on long after it’s gone. Fuck Cas. He doesn’t deserve any of that. 

“You know,” Dean says, faking a contentment that he’s nowhere close to feeling, “I really am.” 

The worst, darkest parts, of him alight at the storm crossing Castiel’s face. It’s jealousy and pain and everything that Dean felt for the past three months splayed across the face Dean never thought he would see again. 

“Good,” Castiel says, his voice a rough husk. He takes a deep breath and rearranges his face into something resembling calm. He even manages to pull his lips into a smile, though Dean can still spot the strain behind his eyes. “I’m glad, I really am.” 

From someone else, the words would ring false and petty. But from Cas, they just sound achingly sincere. In the face of that, Dean is speechless. All he can do is raise his hand before he leaves Castiel’s office. As he walks away, he tries to forget the look on Castiel’s face, the loss and happiness comingling into something wretched, something worth protecting. He tries to forget, but he can’t. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Lydia’s brows raise when Dean enters the cafe alone, but she seems to accept his story of Castiel’s sudden remembrance of a previous engagement with minimal disbelief. “Still, it must be nice to run into him,” she comments, inviting Dean to participate. Dean mutters something that must sound convincing because Lydia doesn’t mention Castiel again for the whole of dinner. Still, there’s a reticence in her words and manners. When Dean looks at her, halfway through dinner, he can’t interpret the look on her face. Later that night, she kisses him with a ferocity that leaves his head spinning. Dean doesn’t think at all while she’s there, but when she leaves, all he can do is think. 

He flips through the pictures on his phone. Each of them carries new meaning. Castiel is no longer a hypothetical fantasy relegated to idle dreams. If Dean wanted to, he could be with Castiel in twenty minutes. The knowledge is staggering, astronomical. 

He tosses and turns the whole night and wakes with no solution. He goes to school and moves through his day in a fog. The world, to which he had just acclimated, has shifted once more and he can’t find his footing. 

Adler, with his sixth sense for disaster, lurks around his classroom, sniffing for mistakes. Dean forces his sluggish brain to function during those times, aware that Adler’s on the scent. He thinks he does well enough, though the little smirk which Adler sends his direction bodes for nothing good. Dean pushes it to the back of his mind, along with every other unsavory thing in his life, and tries to get through the day without fucking anything up too badly. 

In the end, he does what he always does when he can’t find his way. He calls Sam. 

Perhaps Sam is just in a giving sort of mood, or perhaps he can hear the tightness of Dean’s voice over the phone. Either way, he doesn’t make much fuss when Dean asks if they can meet at the Roadhouse for drinks and dinner. “Just the two of us,” Dean says, in case Sam didn’t get the many hints he dropped throughout the conversation. 

He needn’t have worried. By the time he arrives, Sam is already seated in their favorite booth, talking to Ash. He catches Dean’s eye and raises a beer. Dean slides in and takes the proffered beer. He and Sam spend a few minutes catching up with Ash before he leaves to put in their order. After he’s been gone for a moment, Sam sets down his beer. 

“So what’s up?”

And there’s dozens of ways that Dean could answer that question, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Cas is still here. He never moved.” 

Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Surprise maybe? Anger? Sympathy? He’s not expecting the swift blanch of guilt, followed by shock, crossing his brother’s face. It takes a moment, perhaps longer than it should, for the gears to click and the full, awful picture to settle in his mind. A low, rumbling growl starts deep in his chest. 

“Sam,” Dean says, in the voice he used when they were growing up, the _stop the shit and tell me the truth right now_ voice that would freeze Sam in his tracks. “There something you want to tell me?”

For a moment, Sam’s face sets firm. Dean wonders if he’s going to have to pry the truth out of his brother, but then something cracks and shatters, and all that’s left is Sam, looking terrified.

“I found out by accident; it was just some intern at the firm kept on mentioning a Professor Milton in the history department, and I got curious. I looked up on the website and I recognized his picture--”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Dean means for his voice to come out low and venomous, but instead he sounds lost and broken. 

“I wanted to, but I promised that I wouldn’t, and besides, you were doing so much better. I figured, why bring up old wounds?” 

Sam attempts a smile. Dean almost grants it to him, but then his brain catches on a troublesome detail. “You promised?” Sam’s face undergoes an interesting series of contortions, all very quickly. “Sammy?” Dean prompts. Dean’s fingers wrap tightly around his beer bottle. If his grip were any tighter then the glass would shatter.

Sam’s eyes stare at the table as he admits in a whisper, “I went to see him.” Dean doesn’t slam his hand on the table, but it’s a near thing, with betrayal and anger coursing molten through him. “Dean, don’t.” Sam manages to look him in the eye and his voice regains a hint of its old steel. “I wanted to see him first, get some kind of explanation for why the hell he did what he did.”

“And then you what? Forgot to mention it for the next few months?”

“I told you, he made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you.” 

“Did you pinky-swear?” 

“Can you maybe stop being an ass? For like five minutes?” 

“Yeah, I’m the one who’s being irrational here. Because I got mad at you know, having my _life_ dicked around with.” Dean proceeds to shred his napkin into increasingly smaller pieces. There’s something satisfying in the destruction. 

“I was just doing what I thought was best.” 

“Yeah well, next time don’t.” Sam flinches at the snap in Dean’s tone. Shame coils through Dean’s belly when he recognizes that flinch. It accompanied John’s tirades, hot on the heels of the sound of a lamp or a book, flung in a drunken rage, hitting the wall. 

Dean’s teeth gnaw at the inside of his cheeks. Cas lying to him, he’s had months to get accustomed to that idea, but _Sam_...Cas has his brother lying to him, and that’s something so far beyond the realms of okay that Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever be all right. He wants to get up from his table, find the prick, and slam his fist into his face until he can appease this awful _something_ clawing at him. Sam is _family_ , the only blood that Dean has left, and fucking Castiel made him lie, for...for what?

“Not that I care,” Dean says, after a long, tense silence, “but what was so convincing about him that made you decide to lie to me for several months?” 

Sam flinches at Dean’s words, but when he meets Dean’s eyes, his gaze is steady. “He told me that he wanted you to be able to move on with, quote, ‘someone better than him’.” Sam shrugs. His expression reveals nothing. “His words, not mine.” 

“That’s it?” Dean’s ugly laugh gets caught in the hollows of his chest. “That was his big reason? Well, what do you think Sammy?” Dean’s voice is brittle with his anger, but Sam doesn’t respond to the challenge. Instead, his eyes turn soft and sad around the edges. 

“Honestly?” Sam fiddles with his fork before he lays it down on his plate and meets Dean’s eyes. “I think that Cas was the best worst thing to happen to you. Don’t--” he raises a hand to cut off Dean’s angry retort. “I’m serious. You were happy with him. I saw those pictures, same as you. You two were _happy_. And yeah I know, he fucked up and it all fell apart, but still... “ Sam stares at the table. “He misses you and you miss him, I know you do.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean meets Sam’s eyes and bristles at what he sees there. “It doesn’t! Look, if anyone else, _anyone_ , tried to pull the crap that he did, you’d have them tarred and feathered, so what makes him so special?”

Sam shrugs, a helpless smile crossing his face. “It’s Cas,” he says, like that explains everything. Maybe it does. Dean doesn’t know anymore. 

“That doesn’t mean that he didn’t fuck up.” Dean takes a sip of his swiftly warming beer. “Doesn’t mean that you didn’t fuck up when you decided to lie to me.” 

“I’m not saying that it doesn’t.” Sam’s voice sparks with irritation. “But I’m saying that sometimes, people fuck up and they feel bad about it. And if we care enough, we let them explain themselves.” He looks at Dean, and it’s damn near impossible to figure out if he’s talking about himself or Castiel. 

“No.” Sam leans back at the vehemence in Dean’s voice. “I don’t owe him a goddamn thing, and fuck you for saying that I do.” 

“And I’m not saying that you do.” Anger tints the edges of Sam’s voice. “But if he says that he tried to get in touch with you, maybe, just maybe, you should see what he was trying to tell you?”

“Hell no Sam, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Dean fumbles for his wallet and throws down a few bills on the table. “Thanks for, ah,” Dean pretends to think, tapping his chin, “nothing, by the way.”

He ignores Sam’s shouts behind him and brushes past a confused Ash on his way out. There’s a nip in the air and it bites at the tips of his ears as he makes his way across the gravel drive to his car. He sits inside, letting the seething anger bubble in his gut, before he strikes out against the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he shouts, to the interior. He hits the wheel again, more curses filling the space of the car. 

When he’s done, he wrenches the key in the ignition. Gravel flies out from underneath his tires as he speeds his way out of the parking lot. 

Fucking _Sam_ and fucking _Cas_ , and can he not trust anyone in this life? Is he not allowed to have one goddamn thing that isn’t complete shit? 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

For the rest of the week, Dean retreats into the tried and true Winchester method of Not Thinking About It. He does such a good job Not Thinking About It that he actually manages to get through the days without ripping off some poor son of a bitch’s head. 

The reappearance of Castiel Milton and the betrayal of Sam Winchester are the hot topics of conversation the next time he sees Missouri. 

She hums as he recounts the story, nodding her head in the appropriate places. Occasionally, she even raises an eyebrow, which is honestly more reaction than Dean had expected from her. 

“So?” Dean asks. He feels hollow, scraped empty and raw at the edges. 

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” Missouri as usual, is horrifically composed. 

“Well, don’t you think that it’s a little fuc--messed up, that he was in town the whole time and never told me? Worse yet that he got my _little brother_ to lie to me?”

“It’s certainly an interesting choice to make, and I think that Sam would have been better served by telling you the truth, but honestly, I’m more interested in the reason he gave to Sam.” 

“What, that he wanted me to move on? Find someone better?” Dean scoffs. 

“What do you think? Do you think that you deserve someone better?”

Yes is on the tip of Dean’s tongue. Of course he deserves someone better, someone who won’t lie to him, someone who’s willing to commit to him without reservations. But then he remembers what he told Cas, so many months ago. _Be you. Just...be better_. 

“Dean?” Missouri prompts, when his silence stretches on too long.

“So what?” Dean asks, switching topics with a rapidity that would give a lesser person whiplash. “I’m supposed to do what Sam wants? _Listen_ to him, and then what? We hug it out and everything goes back to the way that it was?”

“I don’t think that’s in anyone’s best interest, do you?” The question is obviously rhetorical, and Missouri carries on. “Are you curious as to what he might say?”

“Curious doesn’t mean that I do it. You know, I’m curious about what’s in my breakfast sausage, but that doesn’t mean that I look it up.” 

“It’s a natural inclination, to want explanations for behavior. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you forgive the person, but it does help to better understand that person’s thoughts.” 

“You know, you can just tell me what you think I should do.” Missouri purses her lips in a vague sort of disapproval which needs no words. Dean shifts, slightly abashed. “You think that I should listen to him.”

“It’s not my job to tell you what you should do,” Missouri primly says. Which is really as good of an answer as any.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Since his therapist is no damn help whatsoever and his brother is a filthy fucking traitor, Dean is still stuck for a solution. He doesn’t want to see Castiel, hell, he doesn’t even want to think about him right now. He sure as hell doesn’t want to read the email. If he wasn’t furious at Castiel already, the news about Sam would have pushed him over the edge. He can’t get over the fact that Cas, of all people, asked Sam to lie to him and that Sam actually agreed to it. No. He didn’t owe Cas anything to begin with, but he sure as hell doesn’t owe him shit after that stunt.

Dean goes back to Not Thinking About It, as hard as he can, and it all would have been fine, if it hadn’t been for his nemesis. 

On Friday afternoon, while he’s packing up his bag, a hellbitch walks into his classroom. Dean’s upper lip lifts automatically in response to seeing Masters in his personal space. She, bitch that she is, leans up against his door frame without a care in the world. 

“Get out,” Dean orders, uninterested in any semblance of professionalism. He still hasn’t forgotten their last conversation, all the shit that it drudged up, and where that shit ultimately led. It might be entirely her fault, but it’s also not not her fault. . 

“Free country. Besides, I don’t see your name posted anywhere.” 

“It’s literally on my door.” Dean points to where ‘Winchester’ is displayed on a small plaque. 

Meg cocks an eyebrow. There’s no way to interpret the expression as anything but mocking. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy our little talks,” Dean flicks his desk lamp off, “but it’s time for me to leave. Feel free to lurk in the darkness while I’m gone. I think that there’s a chicken lurking around in case you need to sacrifice it for one of your satanic rituals.” 

“Cute,” Meg drawls, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside his room. “Look, I’m about to do you a favor, even though god knows you don’t deserve it.”

“Please. Don’t stress yourself on my account.” 

“Do you ever get tired, hauling around that much crap?” Meg’s arm cross viciously over her chest. “I mean, between that and your ego, you must have your work cut out for you.” 

“Yeah well, I work out.” Dean smiles, wide and false, at her. 

“You make it extremely difficult to be nice to you.” 

“Certainly explains why you’ve never been nice to me.” Accepting his fate, Dean lays down his bag on his desk and turns his full attention to Meg. “Why start now?”

“Because, as much as it pains me to admit it, I am not, as you like to imagine, a cold-hearted bitch. I have people that I care about.” 

“No.” Dean shakes his head, because he’d never imagined that Cas could sink this low. “Please tell me that you’re not here doing his dirty work.”

“Please Winchester. You’ve met him. Do you think for a second that he’d _ever_ send someone to beg for him?” The second that she says it, Dean knows that it’s true. Castiel, proud, stubborn Castiel--he’d chew off his own hand before he resorted to having someone else help him. 

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

Meg’s mouth quirks up in acknowledgement. “He’d rip me a new one if he knew that I was talking to you. But whatever.” 

“As touching as you finding a shred of warmth in that ice chunk you call a heart is, I’m really not seeing the point. Whether Cas sent you or not, doesn’t matter. He and I are done.” 

“That’s what he told me.”

“So listen to him.”

“No, because when it comes to this clusterfuck, he’s almost as stupid as you are.” 

“Way to butter me up. I am so much more inclined to listen to you now.” 

“You know what Winchester? You don’t like me, that’s fine. My dancing chart’s already fully booked. But you cut him off and you never gave him a chance to explain.”

Dean laughs in her face, mean and petty. “I don’t owe him shit. You know what he did?’ Meg nods once, and Dean continues before she has a chance to speak. “So you know that, and you still want to come here and give me some sob story about how hard done by he is. You can save it because I’m not interested.” 

“Do you know the reason why Castiel switched his major from Business to History?”

The question manages to stop Dean in his tracks, which is of course, exactly what Meg intended. He can see the triumph in the sharp slice of her smile. 

He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of a negative response, but he doesn’t think that Meg was expecting one. She continues, grimly steamrolling over Dean. “I wouldn’t expect so. He doesn’t tell many people. I’d reckon that the only people who know the real reason are me and Gabriel. Maybe Michael. And maybe you.”

Even though he tries to hide it, Meg must be able to read the confusion on his face. “He sent you an email, back in May. Did you ever read it?” Dean clamps his jaw shut on any response, which is in effect, a response itself. “Didn’t think so.” Meg moves closer and Dean represses the instinct to move away from her. “Look, I’m not saying that it will solve anything, but don’t you think that you owe it to the both of you to at least hear what he has to say?”

“Recent events have shown me that I don’t owe Cas shit. And as far as what I owe myself...some peace and quiet would go well, don’t you think?” 

“For the love of…” Meg looks towards the ceiling, like she’s asking for strength. “I promised myself that I wasn’t going to go all rom-com on this.” She plops down into Dean’s chair and throws her legs on the desk, effectively blocking his escape route. “I don’t know how many people have already told you this, but you’re pretty dense so I’m going to tell you, just for funsies. He misses you.” 

Dean opens his mouth but Meg speaks overtop of him. “And not the mopey kind of missing where he sits around and listens to sad music. I’ve never--” She stops abruptly before she looks at Dean. He doesn’t trust the glint in her eyes for a second. “I’ve known Cas for six years. Three of those years…” She trails off with a waggle of her eyebrows and Dean feels a sick lurch in his stomach as he gleans her meaning. Her and Cas…

“So, in those three years, you want to guess how many times he spent the night? How many times we got to spoon?”

“I’d rather shove bamboo shoots underneath my fingernails.”

Meg inhales and exhales with the speed of a glacier. There’s a smug satisfaction in the sound. “Once,” she says, after checking to make sure that Dean has appreciated the pause enough. “Three years and he spent the night once, and that was just because he literally passed out on my couch. We went on two vacations and had a hotel room with separate beds. You know how weird that is?” Meg waves her hand, dismissing Dean’s response before he can ever form one. “So imagine my surprise when he let slip the charming details of your weekend sleepovers and brunches.” 

Dean pushes aside the absurd irritation at the mocking tone in Meg’s voice-- _fuck off, those were **private** , that was just me and Cas_\--and he makes sure that his smirk is firmly on his face as he says, “Again, point?” 

Meg rolls her eyes like there’s a prize at the end of the gesture. “Let me lay it out for you, in simple words. He cares about you, in a way that he never cared about Balthazar, or about me. I think you should go home and read that email.” 

“And what will I learn from that? What’s the point?” Dean means the question to sound caustic, but it comes out entirely too sincere, like he actually wants an answer. 

Showing more kindness than Dean thought her capable of, Meg doesn’t comment on it. “Read it and maybe you’ll know,” is all she says, with her typical level of infuriating smugness. 

Dean represses the urge to throw something. “So that’s your big solution? I read the email and bam, cosmic bandaid for everything? I pat his head and tell him good job for being so honest?” 

“We all fuck up,” Meg snaps, and it looks like she’s finally reached the end of her patience. “I’m not saying that Cas didn’t. He knows it too. You know he knows it.” She looks away from Dean for a moment before she turns the full force of her gaze back on him. “Look, I’m not saying that he’s blameless. There’s something honest to god fucked up about him. But that’s not entirely his fault, and you damn well know it. More than most of us, I would guess--you know that none of us get out of this world without being a little honest to god fucked up.” 

There’s something lurking behind her eyes, something tense and almost vulnerable, and Dean has the absurd thought that if Meg were like this all the time, then maybe they could even be friends. Then she blinks, and the something disappears. “Just humor me for a second. You had your brother, Singer, and Harvelle Elder and Younger to help you with your fucked-upness. Now, imagine what would happen if you hadn’t had any of them.”

It’s a terrifying thought, and one that Dean immediately shies away from. To not have anyone to fall back on, not be able to rely on his family--He’d have been dead by age twenty, there’s not a doubt in his mind. “If people don’t have a support system and they get broken, then sometimes, if they’re very lucky and very stubborn, they manage to put themselves back together. But surprise, surprise,” Meg’s voice rises, “they do it wrong, every single time.” 

Meg gets up from his chair and walks towards his door. “Just read the email Winchester,” she says, and exits his room without another word. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Sam, Missouri, and Meg. Two people which he respects, and one who at least knows what the hell she’s talking about. _If we care enough, we let them explain themselves. Do you think that you deserve someone better? If people don’t have a support system and they get broken, then sometimes, if they’re very lucky and very stubborn, then they manage to put themselves back together, but they always do it wrong_. 

Before he can think twice about it, Dean clicks on Castiel’s email and starts to read.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	25. all my words were bound to fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An email, a meeting, and a coffee date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, if you've stuck with me, commented, or left kudos, I appreciate you more than you'll ever know. <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_From: miltoncj@gmail.com_

_Subject: none_

 

_Dean,_

_I want to apologize. I know that it’s less than worthless now, but please believe me when I say that not a minute goes by that I don’t regret my actions. I could spend hours telling you how sorry I was, and it still wouldn’t come close to expressing how I actually felt._

_You’re under no obligation to read the rest of this email. I shouldn’t ask anything of you, but please--if you’ve read this far then read a little further._

_I never meant to keep from you the fact that I was looking for another job. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for certain what was going to happen. Call me a coward--I didn’t want to have another confrontation with you. I always meant to tell you, but somehow I never got around to it._

_At New Year’s, Michael told me that Milton Corp. was cutting insurance policies, including Anna’s. The medications and care that she requires don’t come cheaply and my health insurance from the county wasn’t covering the cost. I needed to find a job that had better health coverage, and I still had contacts in universities. I reached out to Northwestern because I had ties there, but the goal was always to work at KU. I didn’t want to leave you._

_There’s so much more that I should have told you. I told you bits and pieces of the truth, but never the whole thing. I told you that I didn’t want a relationship, but I never told you why._

_I met Dick Roman when I was a sophomore in college. He was a graduate student at Northwestern's Business program and he was already legendary. The professors talked about him like he was one of your rock stars and we undergrads...We could only look at him in adoration as he walked by. And he chose me. Out of everyone that he could have picked, he chose me._

_Call me naive, but I thought that it would last forever. He was so understanding and supportive in the beginning. I was willing to overlook everything else--his mood swings, his temper tantrums, his need to control. It was stupid of me, but I was so desperate for his approval that I pushed everything else away. By the time that it ended, I was so turned around that I didn’t even realize that I had lost all the friends I had made in previous years._

_I switched majors because of Dick. At 20 years old, I was ready to spend the rest of my life with him, but I was too stupid to realize that he was playing me. Our relationship was a fraud, perpetrated by Dick so that he could manipulate me into giving him complete control over Milton Corp when I inherited it. Everything that I thought we’d built, all my dreams for the future--it was all a lie. That’s when I made a decision. If that was the business world then I didn’t want any part of it. I still don’t. I can hardly look at numbers without wanting to vomit and it’s because of him._

_After him, I swore that I would never open myself up to that kind of pain and ruination. I was pathetic. I look back at myself and I hate the person that I was and that I became. If I ever went through that again, I knew that it would destroy me._

_But you. From the very beginning, you made me doubt everything that I thought was true. I never wanted to give someone power over me ever again, but if you asked me to walk to the ends of the earth for you then I would._

_I’m not asking for a second chance or forgiveness. I know that I’ve destroyed everything between us. I just realized too late, when I’ve wrecked everything, that you’re it for me._

_I’m sorry. Not that it means anything, not that it will help, but god, I’m so sorry. I miss you so much. I miss everything about you._

_I didn’t mean to go on this long. I might delete all of this, I don’t know. But I want you to know; you deserve to know. You deserve everything that the world can give you, and then some._

_You’re the best person that I’ve ever met; I never should have doubted you, not for a moment. There’s a million more things I want to say, a thousand secrets that I should have told you. I still want to tell them to you, but I can’t do it over email. I have no right to presume, but I can’t help but hope that one day I can tell them to you._

_If I don’t hear from you...then I’ll know. And I hope that you have a marvelous life Dean Winchester. You are the kindest, bravest, best man that I’ve ever met, and my life is better for having known you. I honestly don’t know if I can love anyone—I’m fucked up beyond help, but if I could—then it would be you. It will always be you._

_\--Castiel_

 

Dean reads it once. Then he reads it again. And then again. 

After the third reading, he’s no closer to formulating a coherent opinion than he was the first time. 

His instinctive reaction is to delete the email, like he should have done months ago, and then proceed to Not Think About It. He can continue Not Thinking About It all the way up until the grave, and the worst that will happen is he’ll just have several ulcers to take there with him. It’s a foolproof plan, or it would be if he could fulfill the first requirement of the plan: Not Thinking About It. 

All he can do is Think About It. He thinks about it at his kitchen table, he thinks about it while he’s trying to lose himself in a Cutthroat Kitchen marathon, he thinks about it when he’s trying to fall asleep. The next day he reads through it again, using the same kind of care he would use to decipher a message from the Zodiac Killer. 

He understands each individual word, and he can even understand the words when they’re grouped together in sentences. What he can’t comprehend is the message. 

The first time that he read the email, nausea twisted in his stomach. The message was everything he’d wanted in April: the explanation laid in front of him like a banquet. If he’d gotten the email then, Dean would have eaten them with a spoon and savored every bite. 

But it’s not April. It’s October, five months too late for Dean to be wooed by sweet nothings. He reads the message again and finds nothing new. _If I could--it would be you. It will always be you_. 

Dean swallows as he reads those words. They imprint themselves into his mind, until they’re all he can see, taste, or feel. They wind their way down through his chest and curl possessively around his heart. 

Hourly, he fights against the urge to dial Castiel’s number. He wants to curse at him until he runs out of words, until his voice turns hoarse and ragged. He wants to wrap his arms around Castiel and reacquaint himself with the feel of him, the scent of him. Most of all, he wants to call and ask why the hell Castiel never said any of this when it would have made a damn bit of difference. 

He reads over what Castiel said about relationships-- _I would never open myself up again to that kind of pain and ruination_. Is that what Cas saw him as? Ruination? Pain? Weakness? 

This is what Castiel does. He gets inside Dean and twists everything around. Up becomes down and Dean can’t trust his own motivations. 

Dean spends so much time thinking about what to do that in the end, he does nothing. He ignores the fact that inaction is, in its own way, a form of action. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

If Dean hadn’t been so distracted by Castiel, then perhaps he would have been able to anticipate Adler’s next move. Then again, perhaps not. Adler is a snake, and snakes are by their very nature, unpredictable. 

Adler is aided in his persecution by the efforts of one Ms. Ruby Cortese. Ms. Cortese, the definition of a helicopter parent, is the bane of teachers everywhere. Her daughter, Lilith, takes up space in Dean’s English 11 class, and her sneer soon becomes a staple of Dean’s nightmares. Compounding Lilith’s piss poor attitude are the almost daily emails, sent every time Dean puts a grade less than a 90 into the gradebook. He starts to grade like a hunted man, his shoulders hunching over protectively when he enters numbers into his computer. 

_Mr. Winchester, I couldn’t help but notice that you marked Lilith as having a zero for her essay. Was there a reason for this?_

_Mr. Winchester, I saw that Lilith received a 59 on her unit test. Please advise to the reason why._

There’s no escape from these emails. Dean responds as professionally as he can-- _Lilith did not turn in an essay and therefore garnered a zero, if she turns in the work he’ll be more than happy to correct her grade--Lilith was caught cheating off another student on the test and therefore received a failing grade, she has the opportunity to take the test over again for a reduced grade_ \--but none of his answers seem to appease Ms. Cortese. Normally, he would refer the problem to administration and allow them to deal with it, but that would mean talking to Adler. To Dean’s mind, telling Adler he’s having difficulties would be akin to throwing chum in the water. 

It doesn’t matter. Adler finds him anyway. 

He’s with Benny, complaining about the latest email-- _Lilith says that she completed her assignment, yet still has a failing grade, please let me know the reason for this_ \--when the P.A. system crackles to resentful life. 

“Mr. Winchester, if you’re still in the building, please report to Mr. Adler’s office. Mr. Winchester, if you’re in the building, please report to Mr. Adler’s office.” 

The silence following the announcement is ominous. Benny looks at him, mouth pursed in thought. “Well, that ain’t good,” he finally says. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean curses softly. He runs his hand through his hair and rolls his shoulders. “Of all the fucking--” He looks at Benny, his eyes wild. “If I get fired, you know that I didn’t deserve this, right?”

“Go get ‘em brother,” Benny calls after him as Dean starts walking towards the office. 

Adler sits in his office, a giant smug spider in the center of its web. He smiles when Dean enters. If he had a cat in his lap then his resemblance to a Bond villain would be complete. 

“Close the door please, Mr. Winchester.” Dean looks out into the hall before he complies; if anyone is walking past maybe they can rescue him, or at least deliver his body back to his family. No such luck--the hallway is deserted of bodies, the rest of the faculty having deserted the school like rats on a sinking ship. Well, it’s been a good life. 

Dean sits in the chair opposite Adler’s desk. He knows for a fact that the man deliberately chose uncomfortable chairs: the theory being that he wanted supplicants to already be out of their comfort zone when they sat in front of him. Dean shifts on the pleather seat, trying to avoid the spring that seems duty bound to poke itself into his ass. He’s unsuccessful and from the faint smirk on Adler’s face, he knows it. 

“I’ve received several concerned emails and phone calls from one of your parents. A Ms. Cortese?” Dean bites down on the groan begging to escape. “She’s disturbed at her daughter’s lack of progress in your class and mentioned that you’ve been unhelpful in your correspondence.” 

Inhale, exhale, control his mouth, reign in his facial expression--he loves his job, he really does, he can’t afford to get fired… “Did Ms. Cortese mention that I’ve responded to every one of her superfluous emails?”

“We can hardly deem a parent's concern about their child superfluous can we?” 

Goddamn, but Dean hates administrators who never actually bothered to teach a class. For a moment, he imagines a world where he could reach across the desk and forcibly rearrange the smarmy little smirk on Adler’s face. Preferably subtracting the number of the teeth the man possesses. 

“When a parent contacts me about every single grade and repeatedly ignores my advice, then yes, I consider them a nuisance. I’ve repeatedly told Ms. Cortese how her daughter can improve her grades. I’ve offered extra tutoring and told her the assignments that she needs to complete. What Ms. Cortese and her daughter want is a free grade, which I’m sorry, I don’t hand out in my classes.” 

“That would be…” Adler makes a show of checking the paper in front of him, but Dean would be willing to bet money that he’s already memorized every relevant fact. “Lilith Cortese? I’ve checked her grades. It seems that your class is the only class that she’s having difficulty in.” 

“She’s taking multiple electives and honestly, her mother has bullied most of the other teachers into changing her grades.” Adler’s not the only one who can memorize information; Dean’s done his homework as well. 

“That’s quite an accusation.” Adler settles back in his throne-like chair. There’s something about the way that he holds himself that reminds Dean of weekend hunts with Bobby and watching hunters set up in blinds to shoot at unsuspecting ducks and deer. Dean knows that he’s the duck in this situation; he just needs to figure out where the shot is going to come from. 

“Wouldn’t make it if I wasn’t sure it was true.” Dean doesn’t blame Lilith’s other teachers for the inflated grades--it’s easier, in the long run, to just give in, to fudge a grade or add a few points to avoid backlash and questions. But he’s just enough to a bastard to have principles. Plus, it’s the one way that he can wipe that smug little grin off of Lilith’s face. 

“Then I’m sure that you won’t mind if we do a performance review to investigate these claims,” and oh, that’s it, that’s the shot and now he’s dead in the water, just waiting for the dog to come and retrieve his body. 

Performance reviews, for all that they sound innocuous, are the thundercloud hanging over every teacher’s head. They involve every member of the administration team poking into his lesson plans and his classes, copious meetings after school so that he can explain his methods and answer questions about perceived flaws, and best of all, they follow teachers around like scarlet letters. If Dean ever wants to find a teaching job outside of Douglas County, he’ll have to explain why he went under a performance review in his fifth year of teaching. 

Some of his emotion must show on his face because Zachariah practically wiggles with delight. “At Lawrence High we pride ourselves on maintaining the utmost standards of professionalism, which means that if a problem arises, then we take care of it.” 

He’s in enough trouble as is, he really doesn’t need to dig himself in any deeper, but-- “Five years,” Dean spits. His fingernails dig into the cheap wood of the chair. It keeps him from shoving his fist into Adler’s face. “Five years that I’ve worked here without a single complaint and now--” He’s breathing heavy, like he just finished a sprint, and he knows that this reaction is giving Adler exactly what he wants but--For five years, he’s been pouring the best part of his heart and creativity into his job and now because of one bitchy parent and one sad, bitter man with a stick up his ass, he’s in danger of watching it all go up in flames. 

“This is just you trying to get even.” Dean’s proud of well he squelches the wobble in his voice. “You were pissed at me because you thought somehow that I was responsible for Ca--for Milton leaving, and this is your way of getting back at me.” 

“Mr. Winchester.” Adler has the stones to look surprised. “If that were true, then that would make me an incredibly petty person.” He smiles, disingenuous and infuriating. “You can expect my email to set up your first formal observation.” 

Dean snarls something that’s probably less than polite, but he really doesn’t care. He makes it out of Adler’s office without murdering anyone and walks the deserted hallways back to his room. Normally he finds some kind of peace here--after all, he personally decided where to put every poster, every desk, every table. This is one of the few places where he can be the closest approximation to a benevolent dictator and not be arrested. 

He loves his job. Sure, sometimes the kids are annoying and parents like Ruby make him want to chew his own thumb off, but that all pales in comparison to watching Patience and Kevin debate symbolism or seeing Alex’s face light up when he returns one of her essays with a proud 96 scrawled across the top. And now all of that is being threatened. 

Dean packs up and heads home and tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach that tells him that everything--his career and his personal life--are starting a slow downward spiral which can only end in one destination. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

In the weeks following, Dean obsesses over being the best teacher he can possibly be. He gives up Friday night games in favor of grading papers. No more complaints that he takes too long to grade essays. He stays longer and longer at school, often returning home after dark. Exhausted and stressed, he stops cooking and starts buying microwave meals in bulk. He eats styrofoam pasta and cardboard meat substitutes and tries to fall asleep as swiftly as possible. 

In the midst of this, it’s understandable that his relationship with Lydia takes a hit. Dean cancels several dinners, and when Lydia does come over, he’s so preoccupied that he resents any effort she makes to drag him away from his latest round of planning. She leaves after an hour in an irritated huff. Dean misses her, in an abstract way which craves human companionship, but he doesn’t linger too long on the emotion. He still has work to do. 

However, Dean isn’t entirely clueless. When Lydia calls him one afternoon and invites him out to an evening coffee, there’s a hint in her voice that this is not an optional meeting. Dean chances a look at his desk and winces at the paperwork covering it. He has a round of quizzes to grade, and he really should-- “Yeah,” he hears himself saying, and the words unravel whatever tension had been winding tighter over the line, “Yeah, I can be there in about thirty minutes.” 

Lydia tells him to meet her at one of the many trendy coffee shops lining the campus like a series of sentries. The location is an indication of her mood: she knows that driving out to campus is an inconvenience on Dean’s part, and that he hates the traffic and parking. It’s a subtle way of punishing him, and yeah, maybe he deserves it for blowing her off for a few weeks, but he’s still resentful as he pays the meter and walks inside. 

He finds her almost instantly. Somehow, in the midst of the crowded shop, she’s managed to not only secure a spacious booth but also hold it against all interlopers. Dean orders a black coffee, no overpriced six dollar latte for him, and takes the steaming mug to Lydia. 

“Glad that you could make it.” Maybe she doesn’t mean the words to sound as snarky as they do, but Dean’s had a long day and his nerves are frayed. 

He immediately goes on the defensive, and that’s a shitty place to begin any date. “You know that I’ve got this stupid performance review hanging over my head,” he begins, as calmly as possible. “Adler’s just looking for an excuse to put my ass on the line, I know he is.” 

“Dean, hon, don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?” Dean hasn’t told her why he’s so sure that Adler’s out to make his life miserable (because Adler told him that he was setting out to make Dean’s life miserable), so there’s no possible way that Lydia could know, but still. Does she have to sound that condescending? 

Dean knows that he’s being unreasonable and he takes a sip of his coffee to give himself a break. It’s not Lydia’s fault that Adler is an ass, it’s not her fault that his brother is a liar, it’s not her fault that Cas reappeared after Dean thought he was gone for good. It’s not fair for him to take all of his frustration out on her, especially when she’s voicing a reasonable opinion, given her base of knowledge. 

“I just feel like he’s got it out for me,” Dean tries, with a weak little smile. “And this performance evaluation...even if I do everything right, which I will, it’s still going to be in my records. I’m going to have to explain that every time I come up for a raise, or if I ever decide to work somewhere else.” 

“You’re worrying too much,” Lydia says, and Dean wants to laugh, because _hello_ , has she met him yet? Dean Winchester, the king of worrying too much? She reaches out and puts her hand over Dean’s. “I know that you’re going to do fine.”

“Thanks.” Dean scrounges up a watery smile. Her words haven’t helped shit--he’s still freaking out, only now he has to pretend that he’s not. But Lydia’s trying to help and she doesn’t deserve to get crap for being a decent person. 

Their conversation delves into comfortable enough small talk--Lydia tells him new information about her classes, Dean shares an amusing anecdote from Scholastic Bowl, and everything seems to be going well. The problem is that Dean doesn’t want small talk, not right now. He wants to bitch and be petty and stress. As nice as Lydia's chatter is, Dean wants no part of it.

He lasts for another ten minutes before he starts looking around the shop. It seems like the usual late afternoon weekday crowd. College kids, what looks like a few study groups, several loners sitting at a high table with their headphones in, and Cas.

Dean blinks, his heart performing a quick loop-de-loop as his brain focuses in on the fact that for the second time in two weeks, he and Castiel occupy the same space. The coffee turns foul in Dean’s mouth but he swallows and listens his heart out to the shenanigans of the Biology Department. He can’t stop looking however, and soon enough Lydia notices his inattention. 

“What are you…” she turns around and Dean shrinks back because this is not what he wanted to happen but-- “Oh, isn’t that interesting. Professor Milton!” She waves her hand and calls out for Castiel once more. 

Castiel’s head jerks up as his eyes scan the crowd. When he sees the person calling his name an interesting swirl of emotion crosses his face. 

“Lydia, hon, stop,” Dean hisses, trying to grab at her wrist. “The man’s trying to enjoy his coffee, leave him alone--”

Lydia ignores him and continues waving like she’s trying to flag in the winner of the Indy 500. Castiel continues to stare, his hand clutching a to-go coffee cup and a napkin-wrapped pastry. Dean can practically see the struggle in his eyes as his eyes dart between their table and the door. 

“Come join us Professor Milton,” Lydia calls. Dean’s heart sinks as Castiel’s feet start a trudging march towards their table. 

“I wasn’t planning on staying for long,” he says, lifting his coffee cup in needless explanation. 

“That’s fine,” Lydia says. She moves over closer to the wall and pats the empty space beside her. “But you weren’t able to eat with us the other week, so it’s only fair that you join us now.” 

“Do you mind?” Castiel asks, but it’s to Dean that he directs the question. 

Dean feels his cheeks heat. Castiel couldn’t be any more obvious if he was trying. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he mumbles, staring into the dregs of his coffee. “Catch up, you know,” he says, gritting his teeth and forcing brightness into his voice. 

Castiel sits next to Lydia, gingerly, like he’s expecting sirens to go off when his ass hits the seat. Nothing happens, but his hunted posture doesn’t disappear, even when Lydia begins a casual conversation with him. Dean stares. He can’t help himself. 

Castiel looks like...Castiel. Still with the perma-bedhead, still with the five o’clock stubble. The circles under his eyes are a little darker, maybe a little more pronounced, the bones on his face sharper. He’s not wearing a tie and Dean can just spy the jut of his collarbones out of the gap at his collar. He swallows and drags his eyes back to Lydia. 

Her eyebrow raises up a tick, but she turns her attention back to Castiel. “So when did you work with Dean?”

God, this is going to be excruciating. If he has to listen to Castiel retell their story, hopefully with some creative editing, for the next forty minutes, then he’s going to take the butter knife at the edge of the opposite table and shove it into his eye. 

“I thought I told you,” Dean says, knowing that he did no such thing. At least he interrupted whatever the hell Castiel was about to say. “Milton and I worked together for a few years at Lawrence High. He left last year for ah…” Castiel’s eyes slide over to him and Dean loses his train of thought. 

His instinctive reaction is to twist the knife and make Castiel suffer just a little bit more. But now that he knows the reasons behind the decision...Castiel changed jobs so that he could better take care of his sister. And yeah, maybe Dean would have gone about it differently, and he definitely wouldn’t have lied, but at the same time...He would have made the same call, without question. Nothing comes before protecting family. 

“Some personal stuff came up,” Dean finishes. He tries not to see Castiel’s blink of surprise, but it’s impossible to miss. 

Lydia looks between the two of them, a faint smile on her face. “So you two know each other pretty well?”

Dean’s throat expands. Breathing is difficult, how the hell is he supposed to answer this?

“We used to,” Castiel answers. There’s no discernable inflection in his voice, certainly nothing that the casual observer would notice, but to Dean, he just sounds horribly, irrevocably sad. 

Dean’s fingers curl into a fist. Whose fault is it that he and Cas don’t know each other any more? Dean thought that he knew Cas--he thought that when you saw a person naked as many times as he saw Cas, there was nothing that they could hide from you anymore. He thought that when you bared yourself to another person, the way he bared himself to Cas, that the other person couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt you. 

Someone forgot to tell Cas. 

“Everyone changes, right?” Dean smiles, wide and insincere. 

The tension thickens at the table, to the point where Lydia has to comment on it, she can’t possibly ignore this--Dean startles as the bright, cheery tone of Lydia’s phone breaks through his head. Lydia grabs it and answers. Her gaze turns hazy as she listens to the person on the other end of the phone. 

“Really?” A short pause. “I’m out, I wasn’t really trying to...All right. You’d owe me one. Yeah. A big one.” Another pause. “All right. I’ll see you soon.” 

She turns back to Dean, an apologetic look on her face. “Babe, I’m sorry, but I have to run.” Panic starts to rise in Dean’s chest. She mistakes it for regret. “I know, I’m sorry. It sucks, believe me, I know, but there’s a problem at the department with the system and they need help figuring it out.” She looks at Castiel, who takes a second too long to catch the hint, before he starts sliding towards the end of the booth. If the look on Dean’s face is vague nausea, then the look on Castiel’s face would be described as abject terror. “Hey, wait for me? Maybe it won’t take too long and we can finish up.” She rakes her fingers through the hair at the top of his head. 

Dean smiles up at her and hopes he doesn’t look too much like someone with a stomach ache. “I’ll hang out here for a little bit, but I need to get back home.” Lydia’s eyebrows draw together in a small frown. “I’ve got to write those plans, remember?” A small moue of irritation purses her lips together. Dean reaches out for her hand and strokes over her knuckles with his thumb. “I’ll wait for a little while,” he promises. 

Lydia presses a kiss to his temple. It feels cold. “I’ll try to hurry,” she says, but the words ring hollow. 

Dean watches her go before he returns his attention back to Castiel. He perches on the edge of the booth like he’s ready to take flight. 

“I think that’s my cue to leave.” 

“No,” Dean says, settling back into the booth. Castiel looks wary of him. Good. He should. “Stay awhile. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” 

“Dean--” Castiel begins. He catches sight of Dean’s face and his protest dies an ignominious death. He moves back to the center of the bench like a man awaiting his execution. 

Dean smiles. There’s no happiness in the expression. His coffee’s long since gone cold, but he forces the sludge down his throat anyway. Castiel’s eyes follow his every move. His own coffee sits off to the side, along with his pastry, while he clasps his hands in front of him.

Where to start? 

“Sam,” Dean finally says. He watches Castiel’s face for his reaction and he’s not disappointed. The corners of Castiel’s mouth crumple, followed by his eyes, while he looks down at his clasped fingers. It’s as good as an admission of guilt. “What the...why? You lie to me, and that’s...that’s fucked up, but that was between us. But you somehow convinced my brother to lie to me. Why?”

“I didn’t ask him to lie,” Castiel begins, but his voice is weak. 

“You sure as hell didn’t ask him to tell the truth.” Dean stops himself from banging his fist onto the table. “So why?”

Castiel looks at the wall, at the counter, at anywhere except Dean. “I thought,” he begins, before he looks straight into Dean’s eyes. “I thought that it would be better for you if you believed I was no longer in the picture.” 

“That wasn’t your call to make!” A few people look over at their table and Dean realizes that his voice might have risen. With effort, Dean lowers his voice, leaning across the table to make himself heard about the bustle of the shop. “It’s not your decision to think what’s best for me, and it wasn’t your call to tell Sam what to do.” Dean looks at Castiel, allows his eyes to reacquaint themselves with all the contours and curves of it. “You broke it off Cas, not me. Once you did that, you lost all rights to say what was best for me.” 

“Dean.” Castiel’s hands lay flat on the table and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out to Dean. He stays stationary, however, and Dean can’t figure out whether he’s grateful or not. “Dean, you must know...I regret, every single day--”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “But you know that saying that doesn’t change anything, right? Sometimes you do stuff and you can’t take it back whenever you want to.” 

“Trust me,” Castiel says, his voice bordering on the edges of icy. “If there’s anything that these past months have taught me, it’s that.” 

They sit in silence for a while. Dean’s stomach squirms when Castiel looks longingly towards the exit. “I read your email,” he finally says, and has the satisfaction of watching the blood drain from Castiel’s face. 

“Oh,” he finally says. A faint pink tinge provides the only color to his cheeks. “I’m, uh...I’m sorry. That you had to read that.” 

Dean crinkles his brow in confusion. “Why? I thought your whole thing was wanting to tell me the truth.” He avoids using finger quotations, but it’s a close thing.

“It was. It is,” Castiel corrects. He turns his coffee cup in careful rotations. He leans forward. If they were any closer, their noses would be able to touch. “If you’re willing to listen, then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I promise you that. But that email was…” He looks away from Dean. “I didn’t write that email while I was in a good place Dean. It’s...it was self-serving and indulgent.” 

“Well, I noticed that it wasn’t up to your usual standards, writing wise.” 

“Half a bottle of whiskey does tend to make me a little verbose.” 

Dean almost smiles at Castiel before he remembers that he’s not supposed to do that anymore. With effort, he pulls back from Castiel, until he’s on the proper side of the table. He coughs and tries to forget the familiar scent of Castiel’s aftershave. 

“I get it though.” The words come tumbling out of Dean's mouth without his permission. Castiel’s head jerks up. “The job,” Dean explains. There’s a sudden glimmer of hope in Castiel’s eyes and Dean hastens to say, “Not the lying. I’ll never get that, and you still have to tell me why you pulled Sam aboard that train. We’re not cool on that, not by a long shot.” The hope fades until all that’s left is a dull blue. “But as far as why you took the job. I get that. I’d probably do the same for Sam. Hell, who am I kidding. I’d definitely do it for Sam.” 

Castiel’s face is a mixture of sympathetic and admiring, and Dean hates it, except that he doesn’t. “I know you would,” he says softly, and that’s how he used to talk to Dean, with that little hint of wonder in his voice. He takes a deep breath before he continues. “About Sam...I asked him not to tell you, but you have to know, nothing could make Sam do anything he didn’t want to do. Any decision that he made, he made of his own accord.” 

Dean’s anger sparks, but it’s an automatic response. His brain is too busy inspecting Castiel’s words to give the emotion its full force. 

Castiel’s right of course--from the moment he was six years old, Sam never fully did anything that he didn’t want to do. Sure, he would bend to pressure, same as any other kid, but there was always the glint of insubordination in his eyes, and ever the lawyer, he would look for loopholes and avoid the spirit of the command while still sticking to the letter. It’s why John and Sam butted heads so often--Sam never could mold himself into the perfect soldier. That was always Dean’s job. 

Nothing Cas said or did could have convinced Sam to keep his silence, if Sam hadn’t, for whatever reason, thought that keeping Castiel’s presence from Dean was a good idea. 

“Damn,” Dean breathes, before his eyes dart up and catch sight of Cas trying very hard not to look curious. “I really hate it when you’re right,” he explains, and then tries not to let his heart light up at the sound of Cas’ snort. 

It’s just a small thing, not the rich, deep sound of Cas’ real laugh, but it’s more than Dean ever thought that he would get to hear again, and the sound makes him stupid. He can’t help the small grin dashing across his face, nor stop the spark from lighting in his chest at the sight of the rueful smile flitting across Cas’ face. 

“Yes, well.” Cas looks down at his coffee cup for a moment. When he looks back up, his smile has faded, but Dean can still see where it once lurked, like body impressions on a memory foam mattress. “It happens less than you’d think, these days.” 

Which should act as a reminder that Dean has all manner of reasons to be pissed at Cas, but it just...doesn’t. Instead of starting another argument, they sit in silence that’s less awkward than it could be. 

“So why plans?”

Dean startles out of his comfortable state of not-thinking to look at Cas. He must look as flustered as he feels, because Cas gives him an apologetic jerk of his eyebrows before he asks again, “Why are you writing plans tonight?”

Dean’s eyebrow raises. “Because I’m a teacher? And I’m required by the state and school board to submit lesson plans?” 

Cas’ tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, an almost involuntary sound of irritation which occurs whenever Dean veers too far into smartass territory. “I’m aware. I only meant...It’s Tuesday. Thursday’s normally the day that you work on your plans.” 

Dean takes a sip of his congealed coffee to cover up his surprise. He doesn’t know why he is--he and Cas spent more nights than he can count, either sitting proper at the kitchen table (Cas’ preferred method), or sprawled across the couch and floor (Dean’s preferred method), typing merrily away on two different laptops. It was never a settled thing that those nights were always Thursday, but now that he thinks about it, that’s the night that Dean unofficially set aside to work up next week’s plans. 

How does Cas remember that? More importantly, why?

“Dean.” Once more, Cas’ voice manages to bring Dean out of his thoughts and into the present. Cas has the look on his face, the one that on anyone else would herald mild constipation, but that on Cas just reads concern. “Is everything all right?”

And Dean should really tell Cas to fuck off and mind his own business. Cas broke things off, Cas _left_ him, and even though Cas wrote him an email telling him the truth, that gesture was a day late and a dollar short. Cas hasn’t earned the right to be informed of Dean’s life, whether it be shitty or awesome. 

Dean knows all that, and somewhere he might feel all that, but Cas’ face and Cas’ voice combine in an unforeseen alchemical reaction and what comes tumbling out of Dean’s mouth instead of “fuck off Cas”, is the whole sordid tale about Adler and the performance review, and the ever increasing load of shit pressing down on Dean’s shoulders. 

Through it all Cas listens without interrupting. Dean had forgotten, or maybe forced himself into forgetting, the intense focus of Cas listening, really _listening_ , and the small, pathetic part of him that thrives on attention howls in happiness. It all pours out--Adler’s pettiness, Dean’s insecurity, his fear about consequences, the childish refrain of _it’s not fair_ , the nagging thought that maybe he does deserve this after all, maybe he was never as good at his job as he thought he was--

“Stop,” Cas finally interrupts. Dean blinks, still caught in the haze where he can open his mouth and suffer no repercussions. Then the real world crashes down-- _What the fuck did he just say to Cas, jesus christ why the hell would he say that shit to him_? If Cas ever needed proof that he made the right decision, that Dean was too pathetic to be with, then Dean just handed him a bagful of ammunition. 

But it's not disgust or derision in Cas’ eyes--there’s anger yes, but it’s not directed towards him. “That sort of thinking is just what that pissant wants. He wants to make you second-guess yourself, turn you so flustered that you actually do look incompetent.” 

Cas’ anger is always an impressive sight, but seeing Cas’ anger directed at an object of Dean’s hate--it’s a thing of beauty, a force of nature. It’s watching thunderstorms roll across the flat plains of the heartland, seeing the wave gather strength out in the ocean and crash upon the shore with devastating fury. 

In short, it’s entrancing, and watching it, Dean loses himself. He only comes back when he hears Cas say, “This is all my fault. I can go talk to Naomi and tell her what’s happening. I can go put the fear of God into that assbutt--”

“No!” Dean snaps. At the sound, Cas’ fingers, which had been curling into a fist, release and lie flat on the table. “No,” Dean repeats, softer. “It means a lot, it does,” and shit, it really does, when was the last time that someone was willing to go to bat for him, “but this isn’t your problem.” The set of Cas’ jaw says well enough what he thinks of that. 

“If he started this because of me--”

“Then he’s not going to stop until someone makes him stop.” Dean can play stubborn too, probably as well as Cas, maybe better. “And that person isn’t you.” 

It’s not entirely his _stupid machismo bullshit_ , as Sam would so lovingly term it. Dean appreciates the offer of help, more than he could get into rational words, but at the same time he knows that he can’t accept it. If he lets Cas fight his battles and sweep into Adler’s office like an avenging angel, what does it say about him? And even if Cas does handle it (the barely repressed snarl says that Cas is more than capable of _handling it_ ), what better way to put a target on his back for the next time Adler wants to jerk him around? Dean knows bullies: there’s always a next time, until someone says enough. 

That person’s not Cas. It can’t be. 

But god, for a minute, Dean wishes that it could be. 

Cas still looks like he wants to argue, so Dean deflects his attention the best way he can. “Assbutt?” he questions, one eyebrow rising in an invitation for Cas to play. 

It’s manipulation, pure and simple, but either Cas doesn’t recognize it or he doesn’t care, because he falls into the trap easy as walking. A faint flush spreads across the bridge of his nose. “Like you’ve never stumbled over your words before.”

“Stumbled yeah? Created entirely new ones? Not usually.” 

The corner of Cas’ mouth ticks upwards and his eyes spark as he responds, “I seem to recall an involved conversation about vampirates.”

Dean points at him, mouth falling open in indignation that’s not entirely faked. “You agreed that vampirates would be way scarier than skeleton pirates.”

“How would they sail their ship during the day? Impractical.”

“Maybe they’re Twilight vampires. Minus the sparkling! But come on? Vampirates? There’s an entire film franchise just waiting to be discovered.” 

The grin stretching his face is unfamiliar, in the way that a deep tissue massage is unfamiliar. His body and brain recognize that it feels good at the same time they recognize that it hurts. He didn’t realize that it would be so easy to fall back into routine with Cas. If he’d known that after just a few minutes they would be rehashing old jokes, then he never would have stayed. His every instinct screams danger, and the part of him still hurting and miserable pushes him to leave, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t felt this settled in months, like the broken and missing gears of him have finally slotted back into place. 

He shouldn’t feel like this. Cas shouldn’t make him laugh, he shouldn’t be looking for ways to make Cas smile, he shouldn’t let himself be this comfortable with someone who was more than able to raze his heart down to its foundations. 

But for the first time since April, Dean’s blood picks up the pulse of _love love love_ and tries to push it through his veins. 

“You could make a portfolio.” 

The change of topic is so abrupt it leaves Dean reeling. He looks at Cas and confirms, yes, that is still the same man sitting across from him as he was a minute ago, when vampirates were the hot topic of conversation. Cas has finally pulled his poor scone to sit in front of him, but he just worries at the edges of it, sending crumbs flying everywhere. 

“The hell do you mean a portfolio?” Dean rescues the hapless scone. He rips it in half and deposits one half back in front of Cas at the same time he takes a bite out of his half. Blueberry. Lovely. 

“I mean exactly that.” Cas spares a glance for his half of the scone before he looks back up at Dean. “You still have examples of student work floating around your room. Gather them up, take pictures, whatever, and put it in a portfolio.”

“It’s teaching Cas, not some third grader’s art project.”

“Stop rejecting the idea before you even know why I’m suggesting it.” Dean shuts his mouth before he does exactly that and Cas gifts him with a tiny smile in thanks. “No one is at their best when they’re under huge amounts of stress, as I’m sure you can attest to.” Dean rolls his eyes but says nothing. “Again, Adler’s counting on you being too stressed and flustered to think clearly. He wants you to make mistakes in your current lessons, so you go back to previous lessons, when you didn’t have to worry about this. A portfolio shows your work as a whole, not as a snapshot. A performance evaluation can be misleading, depending on what the evaluator chooses to focus on or include. You hand them a portfolio of assignments, plans, and work, and show them that no matter what his conclusion is, you’re more than competent.” Cas pauses, a war waging on his face. 

“Dean, you have to know...you’re one of the best teachers that I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. There will always be other teachers that know more, but you...your care for your students shows in everything that you do. Let them see that. Give them an opportunity to see you at your best.” 

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat, and with every word out of Cas’ mouth it grows. He tries to swallow it down but it remains, stubborn and persistent. 

The imperceptible beat of _love love love_ in Dean’s chest flickers with hope. 

“Man, fuck you,” is all Dean can say, but the words don’t sound harsh. “You can’t fucking...you can’t say that kind of stuff Cas.”

“Why not?” Cas tilts his head and the gesture hooks deep into Dean’s ribcage. “It’s true.” 

“Because.” Dean sighs. “Because we’re…” He waves his hand between him and Cas, like that gesture is supposed to encompass the totality of their relationship, “We’re whatever we are, and we don’t say that kind of shit to each other anymore. We nod at each other if we happen to meet at the grocery store, and we send weird Christmas cards, and we write awkward birthday messages on each other’s Facebooks. We don’t…”

Dean trails off, the brief flare of hope withering away to nothing in his chest. Cold turkey is the only way that he’s found to make a breakup work; it was at least a year before he could talk to Lisa without wanting to drown himself in a handle of whiskey immediately afterward. If he wants to retain any hope of sanity, he can’t have a little coffee date with Cas and laugh about old jokes. He just can’t.

Cas’ face, which had been reverting back to its old liveliness, shutters once more. “Of course,” he says, voice stiff as starched laundry. “My apologies.” 

He starts to get up, and no, that’s not what Dean wanted, not really. He’s not quite sure what he wants, but he knows that this isn’t it. “Wait,” he says, and the word falls out of his mouth like a command. 

Cas freezes, caught halfway between staying and going. He looks at Dean for a long moment before he sits back down. He still keeps one leg out to one side for a quick getaway, but Dean’ll take what he can get. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, belatedly realizing how painless that apology was. “I just...I don’t know how to do this.” Cas raises his brows but doesn’t offer any help. “I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t...you say all this nice shit, and we joke, and I have to remind myself that it’s not...it’s not like it used to be, and it sucks all right?”

And if Dean were smart, he’d stop right there, but he is on occasion, very stupid, so he keeps going, very stupidly. 

“That’s why I’m pissed at you, that’s why I can’t fucking talk to you--I mean, the lying thing is its own little fun fest, but we had a really good thing going Cas. Really good. And then you ended it, and you didn’t just...I lost my best friend because of that.” 

Wow. He hasn’t even had a drink to bring that little tidbit out into the light. 

Cas looks like he’s been slapped across the face, which is the only thing keeping Dean from running screaming from the shop. Ears burning with embarrassment, Dean proceeds to pick off imaginary pieces of debris from his mug. 

“I miss you too,” comes from Cas, after too long of a pause, and Dean’s heart performs a painful one-two beat in his chest. He chances a look at Cas. The other man’s eyes are fixed on a spot just over Dean’s shoulder. Dean wants nothing more than to press his thumbs to the fissure between Cas’ eyebrow and force the worry off of his face. 

_Why did you end it_?

The question is there, on the tip of Dean’s tongue. It’s the million dollar question, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. It’s the question that topples empires. 

He doesn’t ask.

“I never intended to lie to you.” The furrow between Castiel’s brow deepens until it looks painful. “I already said that but. I just...it wasn’t your burden to bear and I didn’t want to tell you anything until I knew for sure what was going to happen. And then we were fighting and I didn’t want to say anything to make it worse. I kept on thinking ‘Just a little more time. Just a little more time’. And then…” One shoulder rises in a futile shrug. “I ran out of time.” 

“If that’s an apology, then it’s a kind of shitty one.” 

The slump on Cas’ shoulders looks less like defeat and more like relief. “An apology is an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, as well as an implied promise to not repeat the offending behavior. I know exactly what I did wrong and I can promise that I will never willingly lie to you again.” 

It’s a gut punch, Cas’ words, and you’d think that he would be used to it by now, but somehow Cas always manages to take him by surprise. “I appreciate that.” 

“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” Cas blurts out, ruining the softness of the moment. From the way that his eyes go wide, Dean can guess that he didn’t mean to let that little tidbit of information drop. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, with real interest. 

A little more comfortable, Cas nods. “We’ve ah, we’ve started working through my ‘intimacy issues’.” He uses fingerquotes and this time, Dean doesn’t feel bad smiling at the familiarity of it. 

“Yeah? How’s that going?” The bitter part of Dean is still there, and it longs to speak, but Dean forces it back down.

“Excruciating. It’s like I’m the Sherlock Holmes of my own bad decisions, trying to figure out exactly where I went wrong.”

“Ah, therapy.” Dean’s smile is sardonic, but leaning more towards fond. 

“Maybe.” Cas bites his lower lip before he lets the words out in a rush. “Maybe I could tell you about it some other time?”

The invitation shines bright in his eyes. Dean wants, god does he _want_ \--

_Not yet_ , a small voice inside him warns. 

“I don’t...That’s not a good idea,” he says, and hates himself for the way that the light dims in Cas’ eyes. 

“I should...I should go,” Cas finally says, after an agonizing silence has passed. “You’ve got to get your work done, and I have some essays that need grading.” He gets up from the table and starts to make his way towards the door. 

“Cas,” Dean says, freezing the other man beside him. It’s almost more than he can take, looking into those eyes, but Cas has at least earned this from him. “It’s good, what you told me. I’m really glad that you’re talking to someone.” Cas smiles like a chore, but at least he’s trying. “And thanks for listening, and for the portfolio idea. It’s really good; I’ll definitely do it.” 

“Whatever you need,” Cas says, and Dean knows that he’s not just talking about the portfolio. 

Dean doesn’t respond, he can’t, but he does offer up a tight little nod. Cas smiles, small and resigned, like he got more than he ever hoped to receive, and walks towards the direction of the door. 

Dean watches him go. He rubs the pads of his middle and index finger over his thumb, soothing away the memory of rough stubble. The scent of Cas’ cologne lingers in his nose, and if Dean’s tongue flicks out over his lower lip, he could swear that he tastes Cas there, all mouthwash and the cheap mints that he downs like candy. 

_Not yet_ , the voice inside him says, and Dean doesn’t bother trying to interpret the meaning behind it. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	26. let's destroy each of our mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fun night out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

A week and a half after the accidental coffee date, Lydia breaks up with him. 

In hindsight, it’s really not that much of a surprise. Dean was already on the ropes when the coffee date that wasn’t went bust. It’s not a large stretch of imagination to assume that Lydia was already pissed at him for breaking off dates and for emotionally sequestering himself until he’s the human equivalent of a maximum security prison. 

She at least waits until a Friday, which is a kindness. 

It’s frustrating, because it happens on a night when Dean was trying. He’d finished his work and even put together a section of his portfolio, complete with a table of contents. He was putting on the fancy pants and the really nice polo, the one that hugged his shoulders just the right way. They were going _out_. 

So when he shows up at Lydia’s apartment, and she greets him with a pitying look and a “We need to talk”, it’s understandable that he feels a little confused. 

She’s straightforward, but kind, is Lydia, which is really all that you can ask for when you’re being dumped. It still fucking sucks, Dean decides, as he’s led into the living room, but it could be worse. Lydia sits him on the couch while she perches on the armchair. A coffee table separates them, nice and impersonal. Dean halfway expects there to be a stenographer in the corner taking notes. 

He knows what’s coming--the words _We need to talk_ have never been followed by anything like _I think that what you’re doing is excellent, can you keep it up please_ or _We’ve been together for about two months, so I guess it’s time that we start doing butt stuff_. 

No, _we need to talk_ is always followed by a circus of cliches. 

_It’s not you, it’s me_. 

_I think we just want different things right now_. 

_I think you’re really great, but I just don’t see us working out_. 

He thinks he does a pretty good job of remaining calm and professional (he wore the Nice Polo, goddammit), as Lydia clears her throat. She looks mildly apologetic, an insurance woman informing a client that no, their policy won’t cover the full amount of the damage, so sorry, but you can see here in subsection a-2…

“We should break up.” 

He wasn’t expecting anything else, but hearing the words stated so baldly is still a slap in the face. He wonders which clause he broke in subsection a-2 of the Boyfriend Contract. 

“I mean, it’s not like we’re really together anyway.” 

Oh. Apparently it’s hard to break a clause in the Boyfriend Contract when the contract is apparently non-existent. 

“We were going out tonight,” Dean finally says, because he has to say something. “We’ve been on dates, we talk on the phone...That’s not being together?”

The pity in Lydia’s eyes hurts a little too much. Dean switches his gaze to examine the spotless surface of her coffee table. 

“Dean. You’ve cancelled all but two of our dates in the past three and a half weeks. Some days the only time we talk is when you text me ‘Good morning’ right before your classes start. I’ve yet to meet your friends. The only person from your family I’ve met was your sister and that was an accident.”

It’s true--Jo was sneaking into his townhouse to steal his toolbox. She was halfway through the theft when Dean and Lydia came home early and surprised her. It was an awkward meeting for all parties. 

“All right.” Dean scrubs at the back of his neck. “I mean, you want to have a sit down with Bobby and Ellen? It’ll be damned uncomfortable, but we can do that if you want. You want to go out with Sammy and Jess? He’ll try and get you on the newest vegetarian diet, but we can live it up with the Lawyers Extraordinaire.” 

“Stop being an ass,” Lydia snaps. “It’s…” She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling before spearing Dean with her gaze. “You could invite every single family member and friend that you have to this apartment right now, and we could have a party, and at the end of it I would still tell you that we shouldn’t see each other. The family and friends thing is just a symptom.” 

“Of what?”

Lydia’s blonde hair curls around her clenched jaw. “You don’t want me anywhere near your life.” She cuts Dean’s protest off with a sharp gesture. “Think about it. It’s only ever the two of us; you never include anyone else--”

“I thought that’s what you were supposed to do when you were dating someone; I didn’t realize that you wanted the 101st Airborne along with us--” 

“You hardly tell me anything about what you’re thinking or feeling--”

“Didn’t realize that I was taking my therapist out to dinner--”

“We never spend the night at each other’s apartment--”

“I can go pass out on your bed right now if you want me to--”

“I told you to stop being an ass,” Lydia says, but now she just sounds tired. Her fingers find their way to her temples, and she pushes them in hard enough to have her skin wrinkle. “I don’t know why you’re fighting so hard to keep this. Dean, you don’t want me.” 

Stunned into silence, Dean can only blink. “Yes I do,” he finally gets out. The words sound just as lame aloud as they did in his head. He tries again. “I want this. I want to be with you.” 

“Oh. Oh Dean.” A small, sad smile plays over Lydia’s face. It’s enough to start Dean’s blood boiling. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Dean’s lip curls in an automatic reaction. “I didn’t know that you even wanted any of that.” He thinks back to the conversation at the Roadhouse, what feels like years ago. “I thought that this was just supposed to be a fun thing.” 

“It was,” Lydia agrees. She doesn’t look the least bothered by the edge in Dean’s voice. “But eventually, you either want more or you get out. And this is me, getting out.” 

The words shouldn’t act as a blow to the gut, but they do. All he can see when he looks at Lydia is yet another person who decided that Dean wasn’t good enough to stick around for. 

“Alright. Okay. Alright.” Dean’s hands, suddenly clammy, wipe over his thighs and clench above his knees. “All right.” 

“Dean. We both knew that whatever was between us was never going to be long-term.” With difficulty, Dean restrains the flinch which wants to appear at the casual assessment of his worth. “Besides, we both know that there’s someone else you’d rather be with.” 

Why, why, _why_ did Dean tell Lydia so much of the truth when they met? It was fine when he thought that he would never see Cas again, but now that he’s a viable presence once more, the truth is a fine, dangerous wire. 

“That’s not true.” He means the words for himself, so he’s surprised when Lydia lets out a delicate snort. The anger, which had been lying dormant, flares to vicious, savage, life. 

“Are you sure?” Lydia arches a sardonic eyebrow. “Professor Milton looked like he wouldn’t mind.” 

Lydia says the words so off-handedly that it takes Dean’s brain a moment to catch up. “The hell? Why would you...Cas and I aren’t…” Heat floods his face when he realizes that all of his complaints are only fueling Lydia’s suspicions. 

Her lips purse as her eyes narrow. Cheeks on fire, Dean tries to look anywhere except at his ex-girlfriend. “Are you really going to play that game with me?” A sardonic smile plays at her mouth. “We’re not together anymore; you can’t get into trouble.” 

“Thanks so much for bringing that up,” Dean snaps. “That’s not painful at all.” 

He dares to glance back at Lydia, who has the balls to look surprised at his accusation. “I didn’t think that it would bother you that much. I thought that now you were back in touch with...Cas?” She phrases the name delicately; Dean wants to pluck it out of her mouth. “I figured that you were close to getting back together with him. What can I say?” One of her slim shoulders lifts. “I figured that I’d go ahead and save you the trouble.” 

Dean’s head reels. First the dumping and now this-- “What the hell would make you think that Cas and I were...are…?” Fuck, he can’t even think straight, denial and hope and resentment swirling in his gut until he can barely hold it in. 

“Wow, all right, we’re really going to do this.” Lydia might whisper the words under her breath, but she clearly intends for Dean to hear them. She folds one leg underneath her in a swift, elegant maneuver and hooks a tendril of hair over her ear. 

“Remember when I told you that I was going to come back to the shop if I finished up with the computers?” 

Dean nods. “I waited for a while, but you never came back.” It’s not even a lie. He really did wait for Lydia after Cas left, until the baristas started throwing him dirty looks for lingering in a booth with an almost empty mug of coffee. 

A faint shadow crosses over Lydia’s face. “I came back.” 

Dean’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Then why didn’t you--”

“I saw you,” she interrupts, her voice oddly calm. 

“Yeah, I’m over six feet tall, I’m kind of hard to miss--”

“I saw you. With him.” 

Why does her voice have that flat, dead quality to it? He was sitting with Cas. Two guys, having coffee, talking about work.He tells her as much, only to receive that same damn smile in return. “Well what the fuck?” Dean asks. The little bit of patience he manages to scrape together boils away under the force of Lydia’s non-judgemental judgemental smile. 

“You told me, the first time that we talked, that there was someone else. I figured hey, what the hell--we’ve all got people in our past that we’re hung up on, and like I said, I wasn’t looking for anything really long-term. And we had fun, so I figured might as well keep on. But the first time I saw you with Cas...even if we had been in it for the long run, it would have been over then.” She shakes her head at the befuddled look on Dean’s face. “You look at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and I knew that you were never going to look at me like that.”

“That’s not...that’s not true.” Dean forces the words out through an increasingly dry mouth. He shifts and becomes uncomfortably aware of the clammy spots at the armpits of the Nice Polo. “It’s only been two months, it takes a while--”

“Oh god, I’m not upset,” Lydia rushes to tell him. “But it seemed stupid for us to keep on going if you were going to feel that way about someone else.” 

“I don’t…” Dean’s tongue, stupid and clumsy, stumbles over the words. “I don’t…” The denial sits poisonous on his tongue. He doesn’t finish. 

“I don’t know what happened to break you two up, but whatever it was, if you two can still look at each other like that, it can’t be that bad.” Lydia clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

“Cas and I were never a couple,” comes the automatic response before Dean physically bites down on his tongue. This is a break-up, Lydia neither wants nor cares about his history. 

“Shame,” is all she says. “Considering all the eye-fucking going on whenever you two are in close proximity, I’d say that you’d make a pretty good one.” Her eyes slide towards the door and then back towards Dean. 

He takes the hint and unfolds himself from her couch. His joints creak on his ascension, like he’s aged thirty years in the half hour it took for him to get dumped. He stands for a moment, hands awkwardly hanging at his sides. Do they shake? Hug? Air-kiss like European assholes?

“I suppose I’ll see you around,” Lydia finally says, implying that she wants nothing of the sort. She opens her front door and looks expectantly at Dean. 

“Sure,” he mumbles. While it’s nice not to get the line of We can still be friends, this feels a little abrupt. You’d think that he’d be good at getting dumped, considering how often it happens, but nope, he’s terrible at it. “Um…”

With that sterling line, he leaves. The cold October air nips at the tips of his ears and his nose as he walks back towards the safety of the Impala. He hates the fall. Everything’s dying around him, brown leaves falling like soldiers, and the impending chill settles into his bones for the long haul. 

He traces the lines of stitching on the steering wheel before he starts the car and drives away. 

\---

He should go home. If he were being sensible, he would call Sam, Jo, or Benny and go over to their place. 

But he’s still not quite talking to Sam, Benny and Andrea are doing their weird married people things, and Jo is still in the saccharine honeymoon phase with Charlie, which while adorable and blackmail inducing, is not what he wants to see right now. 

So Dean pulls a John Winchester and parks in front of the first bar he can find. 

It’s a specimen: all the sawdust and nicotine smell of The Roadhouse, minus half the class. The flickering neon sign just barely clinging to life on the side of the building simply proclaims the name of the establishment as ‘Bar’. Peanut shells crunch under his shoes as he walks towards the bar and Dean suspects that the shards will have made a permanent home in the treads of his shoes by the time he leaves. Despite the chill in the air, inside the air is sweltering. A bead of sweat belligerently trickles down his back before slipping underneath the waistband of his pants. By now the Nice Polo has several distinctive sweat marks on it, excruciatingly visible when Dean slips his jacket off and throws it on the back of his chair. 

Somehow, he doesn’t think the clientele of ‘Bar’ will mind. There’s only a few burly truckers lurking in the corners, faces mostly hidden behind bushy beards. Their eyes squint at him as he enters and Dean automatically bristles, ready for the _Pretty Boys_ to start flying. 

“What can I get for you?” 

The bartender, a pretty little thing whose nametag says ‘Tessa’ sidles up to him. While she doesn’t smile, the muscles in her face give the impression of it, which is more than he expected from a place like this. 

Dean rests his elbows on the sticky bar top. “Whiskey. Neat.” 

One dark eyebrow rises, but Tessa soon slides a glass in front of him, filled halfway with dark amber liquid. Dean takes it in hand and savors the weight of the glass, the way that the whiskey changes color in the dim lighting of the bar. 

“So you’re already dipping into the hard stuff at six in the evening,” Tessa says, as she props her elbows up on the bar. “Did you get fired or get dumped?”

Dean throws the shot back, breathing through his nose at the burn. Shit, no matter how many times he does that, it’ll probably never lose its thrill. He’s aware that’s how an alcoholic thinks, but he can’t help it if it’s true. 

“Dumped,” he grits out, setting the glass carefully down. “Another please.” 

“Keys.” When Dean turns his glare on her, Tessa meets it with an equal one of her own. “Look, this is my bar, so you either play by my rules or you pay up and get out. If you’re going to hit the bottle like you’re trying to send your liver into a Scared Straight program, you’re going to hand over your keys.” 

He should leave. He should slide $10 across the counter and go home to lick his wounds. 

Instead, he fishes in his pocket and hands Tessa his keys. “Just...don’t lose them,” he warns, before he accepts another glass. 

\---

Things get a bit hazy after a while. 

There’s two twenties in his back pocket which weren’t there when he walked in, so Dean concludes that he must have hustled at least one of the truckers out of a game of pool. Tessa’s eyes are sharp as she pours, but Dean’s still upright and he hasn’t started a fight or puked, so there’s no real reason for her to cut him off. 

She’s kind of cute, is Tessa, and she’s badass. Dean watches as she stares down a muscle-shirt clad loser with biceps that could only be described as rippling. With little more than a stern look and a quick word, Tessa quickly puts him in his place and he slinks back to his friends. 

“Pretty awesome, what you just did there,” Dean says when she comes back to check on him. He speaks with the precise enunciation of the buzzed, dropping every word like a dart. Most of the time he even hits the bullseye. 

“Dealing with assholes is part of the job,” Tessa says, then gives him a significant look, like it's a hint. 

Dean chooses to ignore any hidden messages and instead plasters on his most charming smile. It feels a little lopsided now, sliding over his face, kind of like how the corners of the room are shifting, but it’ll do for now. 

“I know you’re working but--”

“No,” Tessa says, her voice flat and firm. “Absolutely not, big guy.” 

Dean blinks. It’s been a while since he’s been shot down like that, no questions, no consideration, just...No. 

“Don’t take it too hard, but if you’re in here drinking over a breakup then I am really, really not interested in being your rebound.” Tessa does manage to look moderately apologetic as she wipes a cloth over the bar, sending peanut carcasses cascading to the floor in her wake. 

“We weren’t even together for that long,” Dean mutters, like that somehow matters. “Two freaking months.” 

“So get over it,” Tessa suggests, like that’s just something he can do, easy as flipping a switch. 

“Wasn’t even my fault.” Dean looks at Tessa. It’s somehow very important that she know this; he’s not just an asshole. He got dumped and it wasn’t his fault, his girlfriend just thought that he was in love with his ex, which maybe she was right, maybe he is still in love with Cas, because even though Cas is an asshole and a coward and a liar, he’s still Cas at the heart of it, and the last time that they talked Dean could see the little bits and pieces that he fell in love with fusing back together, like watching stained glass being made--

“Slow your roll there Casanova.” 

Dean blinks as the bar swims back into focus around him. His mouth feels dry and holy shit did he just say all of that out loud? 

“Yeah, yeah you did.” There’s a laugh dancing in Tessa’s eyes and heat unrelated to the stifling air spreads across Dean’s cheeks. “Look, if you’re losing your filter, maybe you should call a ride to take you home.” 

“No.” Dean gestures at the beer selection. “It’s just time to switch is all.” 

Tessa squints suspiciously, but pours all the same. 

\--

Here’s the thing about John Winchester. 

He was a mean drunk, but he always started out the night as a friendly drunk. Get about three shots in John Winchester and he was everyone’s friend. There was a reason that Bobby put up with his shit for so long; John was hail fellow well met as long as he could maintain that even buzz. 

Get one too many drinks in John Winchester though, and he turned into a hateful son of a bitch. 

That’s the side that Dean and Sam saw most often. 

It’s also what Dean has inherited from his father. 

Most of the time, he’s able to monitor himself and keep himself on the straight and narrow. After a few times, he found the thin line between _too much_ and _just right_ and was able to toe it. Even now, at twenty-nine, he doesn’t get drunk-drunk often. 

Unfortunately for him and everyone around him, he’s well beyond the line of _too much_ and with resentment still burning in his gut, he’s poised to turn into John Winchester, Version 2.0. 

Some faint, buried, sober part of his brain tells him to stop, but Dean hates that part of himself, along with every other part of himself, and everyone else in this bar, so he keeps on drinking. He maybe runs his mouth too much too loud, and gets Burly Dude #2 out of his chair and walking towards him. His hand is already fisted and he’s ready to cause some damage, but Tessa magically appears between the two of them. 

Her fingers are like steel as she takes him back to the bar and plops him on a corner seat. “You’re just going to sit there,” she snaps, shoving a sweating glass of water in front of him, “while I decide whether or not I’m going to call the cops on your stupid ass.” 

“Whatever,” Dean mumbles. He takes the water, because it’s hot as balls and he could use something cool. His fingers find his phone in his back pocket and he brings it out. 

If this were a week ago, he could have been out with Lydia. He could have taken her out to a nice dinner, maybe they could have gone to a movie and made out in the back like teenagers. Maybe they would have even driven to the woods and fooled around in the backseat. He could have done all that tonight even, if she hadn’t dumped him. 

She dumped him because she saw him together with Cas. 

Cas, who dumped him. Cas who doesn’t want him. 

What the hell is it about him that’s so disgusting? What makes people look at him and run away screaming? 

Dean blinks as the phone rings in his ear. He thinks back but can’t remember going through the action of dialing a number. No worries. Sam is the first number in his speed-dial, and while they haven’t really talked ( _Cas’ fault_ his brain happily reminds him), he knows that his brother won’t leave him to rot in a bar. 

He’ll be bitchy about it, but Sam’s been bitchy for twenty-five years. 

After four rings, the phone picks up. Dean closes his eyes and sags into the back of the chair, ready for his scolding. 

“Dean?” 

The hesitant, rough voice on the other end of the line sends Dean’s blood rocketing through his veins. His eyes snap open as he sits upright. 

“Dean? Is everything all right?”

“Sure Cas,” Dean drawls into the phone. “Everything’s just fucking perfect, isn’t it?”

If he strains his ears, Dean can hear the soft sounds of Cas breathing on the other end of the line. “Have you been drinking?” Cas finally asks. 

“Not that it’s your business, but yes I am. No fucking thanks to you.” 

“All right. Well, I’m going to hang up now, and if you want to talk to me tomorrow--”

“No, fuck you, you don’t get to hang up.” Dean is certain of this fact: Cas owes him this rant. Cas ruined his life, Cas didn’t _want_ him-- “This is all your fault, so fuck you, you listen.” 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is tight. “If you want to call me and yell at me tomorrow, believe me, I will be more than happy to listen, but if you’ve been drinking--”

“Course I been fucking drinking, I’m fucking miserable!” Dean shouts. He takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with much needed oxygen for the upcoming tirade, but it falls short as his phone is neatly plucked from his loose fingers. 

“Yeah, hi,” Tessa says in a terse voice. “I don’t know who this is...Castiel?” Her eyes flick towards Dean, and even though his drunken haze, Dean sees when she puts the pieces together. “Yeah, well I’m sorry to ask, but your _friend_ here is being a nuisance in my bar...No, he’s tried to, but he hasn’t managed to get his ass beaten yet. It’s coming though...Look, I appreciate that, but it’s either you come get him or he spends the night in the drunk tank sleeping it off...Yeah. All right.” Dean’s arms viciously cross over his chest as Tessa rattles out an address. She tucks his phone in his back pocket and turns to him. 

She shouldn’t look so smug. 

“You just trying to steal everything now? First my keys and now my phone?” 

“I think you’ll find that you’ll thank me later when you’re not dead and you still have a friend in the morning.” 

“Yeah, fuck you, you don’t know me.” Dean looks away from her, only to be startled back into eye contact by her hand slapping down on the bar in front of him. 

“You want to fix the attitude?” Tessa’s dark eyes flash with anger. “You come in here with the idea of killing your liver and you know what? That’s fine; you’re obviously an adult, so I leave you alone. You hustle some of my regulars, whatever. They’re assholes and they need to come down a peg. But you start making an ass out of yourself, trying to pick a fight? And then, when someone actually gives half a damn about you, you start with the attitude. And that’s crap. So seriously. Cut the crap and wait here for your damn ride.”

Dean glowers at her as she walks to the other end of the bar, but doesn’t move from his spot. Wait for his ride...His brain trips over the implications. Tessa talked to Cas. Cas was on the other end of the phone. Cas is his ride. 

No. Cas wouldn’t come. Cas doesn’t care about him. Cas left him. If you care about people, you don’t leave them. No, Cas will call Sam or Charlie or Benny and have them come pick him up. Better yet, Cas will call an Uber and surrender Dean to their tender mercies. That’s assuming that Cas even cares enough to do that little. More likely, Cas hung up on Tessa and then went back to doing whatever he was doing. 

Probably finding someone better than Dean. 

A soft hand on his shoulder startles Dean out of his thoughts. He looks up, only to see Cas’ face blurring in and out of focus. He closes his eyes, but when he opens them Cas still remains. He looks like he’s been abruptly called out of bed. He’s dressed in one of his old Northwestern t-shirts, a pair of jeans with a large hole in the knee, and the awful beige trenchcoat to top it all off. He does not make an impressive picture, nor a welcome one. 

“Dean.” It’s difficult to read expressions on Cas’ face while he can’t tell up from down with any accuracy. “It’s time to go.”

“No.” Dean hasn’t wanted to be in this bar since he entered, but, in the face of Cas’ concern, he finds a newfound fondness for it. “Fuck you. These are my friends.” He gestures to the truckers, most of whom would love nothing more than to shove their knuckles into the bones of his face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Yes you are!” Tessa calls from the opposite end of the bar. 

“Please.” Urgency thrums low through Cas’ voice as his fingers sporadically convulse on his shoulder. “Dean, you need to come with me.”

“No, you don’t get to tell me what I need to do. You don’t fucking--” Dean trails off, unaware of the point he was trying to make, but still holding onto the rage. “You ended it.” He points a wobbly finger in accusation. “So you take all your fucking, your whatever,” Dean shoves his finger hard into Cas’ chest. The other man stumbles back from the force and Dean is morbidly pleased, “and you shove it up your ass.”

“How about this?” Like magic, Tessa materializes in front of Dean. With effort, he pulls himself back. “You either leave this bar with him,” she jerks her thumb towards Cas, “or you leave it in handcuffs.”

Cas doesn’t show any emotion, big surprise there, but something in him loosens when Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he snarls, jerking back from the both of them. “But you don’t say a fucking word to me.” 

If Cas is hurt, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he looks away from Dean as he collects his keys and phone from Tessa. After, Cas looks towards Dean. The question is clear in his eyes-- _Are you coming_?

Dean tries to walk forward, but his feet refuse to cooperate. His toe catches against the floor and he lurches forward. He tenses, preparing for impact, but his forward momentum is arrested by a pair of strong, sturdy hands.

“Come on,” Cas says. He shifts his grip from Dean’s shoulders to his side and wrist, hauling Dean’s arm over his shoulders. They’re broad, Cas’ shoulders. Dean forgot just how broad. 

It’s easier than it should be, walking out of the bar and to the car. Cas should struggle under his weight. Their legs should tangle and they should trip. A thousand things should be happening, but instead they just stumble-walk towards the Impala, legs easily adjusting to the other’s stride. 

Dean collapses into the passenger seat, grunting when Cas shoves him further in the car. He tries to swat away Cas’ hands as they gently rest his head against the seat, but something’s wrong and they don’t move like they should. All he can do is mutter a weak, “Screw you,” before Cas shuts the door. 

It’s only after Cas settles behind the steering wheel and they’re pulling out of the parking lot that Dean realizes what’s wrong with the situation. 

“The hell are you doing with my car?” he groans. Lifting his head proves too difficult; he has to loll it across the seat to glare at Cas’ profile. It’s nice, Cas’ profile. He’s always thought so--strong chin, sharp nose. Cas is in the driver’s seat of his baby. It’s a punchable face. 

“Did you want your car to sit in that lot?” Cas asks evenly. 

Dean blinks, watching as the streetlights and passing headlights pass over Cas’ face. No, in fact, he did not want his car sitting in that lot all night long. He won’t give Cas the satisfaction of knowing that he’s right, though. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles. The leather is cool against his cheek as he closes his eyes. “Don’t fucking wreck it.” 

The ride home passes in a series of traffic lights and turns. Dean dozes for most of it, his eyes occasionally opening to watch Cas. It’s not the first time they’ve been in this situation, he realizes--Cas drove him home from Charlie’s Halloween party, when Dean was so drunk he could barely stand up straight. 

He remembers that night. He was unable to keep his eyes off of Cas, unable to repress the tiny squirm of his stomach every time their eyes met. He’d been almost giddy for part of that night--thrilled with himself and Cas, delighted with the flashes of mirth he found in Cas’ eyes. 

He’d held Cas’ face in his hand that night, let his thumb explore new territory as he discovered the softness of the skin underneath Cas’ eye. _You’re so fucking gorgeous_ , he’d whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice cuts through his reviere. Dean jerks upright, bleary eyes focusing on his own front door. “We’re here.” 

“Great. Awesome.” Dean fumbles at the handle and shoves it open, narrowly missing the car parked next to him. “See you later.” 

He makes it to the front door without mishap, but falters when it comes to getting inside his house. He pulls at the door handle and shoves his shoulder into the unforgiving wood, but doesn’t manage to gain admittance. “The fuck?” Dean mutters, twisting the knob with more force than is necessarily required, but still--nothing. 

He tries again, before rearing back and preparing to throw his shoulder into the door, but once again, his forward momentum is arrested. 

“Stop before you hurt yourself,” Cas says. His voice holds the old hint of command, the one that always made Dean sit up and take notice. It’s no different now, except that after his body freezes, he’s angry about it. 

His anger doesn’t stop Cas from stepping close, way too close, or from reaching forward. “What the fuck?” Dean yelps as Cas’ fingers dip into his front pocket. Close, close, it’s too fucking close. The heat from Cas’ hands leeches into his skin through the thin barrier of his jeans pocket and boxer briefs. Dean closes his eyes as Cas' fingers press into the muscle of his upper thigh, and as they brush past the crease of his thigh. Too close, too close...

Cas retracts his hand. This time his motions are accompanied with the sound of jingling keys. He deftly moves Dean out of the way and unlocks the door. 

“Are you going to be all right?” he asks, hanging the keys up on the hook beside the door. 

“I’m awesome,” Dean says, before he trips over the threshold of the door. He manages to save himself, but also destroys any point he was trying to make. 

“All right. Come on.” Cas’ hand cups Dean’s elbow. Dean relaxes into the hold for a moment, relishing in the strength and support of that hand, before he yanks away. 

“Just go, man,” he sighs, slumping against the wall. His head is too heavy for him to hold up and he leans it back against the wall. He regards Cas through slitted eyes. “The hell are you even doing here?”

“I got a call from a bartender saying that you were starting drunken fights and that she was getting ready to call the cops to come pick you up. I thought that I would be a better option.” 

“The fuck do you even care?” Dean runs his palms over his face. 

For the first time, a sliver of emotion appears on Cas’ face. Dean’s mind isn’t working quickly enough to catalogue it, but it’s there. “You really have to ask me that?” Cas asks, losing the cool, collected tone. 

“Uh, yeah.” Dean glares at Cas. “You fucking left me, not the other way around. I said,” Dean’s face colors in humiliation as his voice breaks, but he continues on regardless, “I said that I loved you and the next day you cut me out of your life. So fuck you, why do you care?” 

Cas bites on his lower lip, his eyes closing briefly. “I never…” he stops, and looks up towards the ceiling. “I never stopped caring for you, not once.”

Dean pushes off the wall. He sways on his feet but remains upright, less than a foot away from Cas. Up this close, he can breathe in the scent of him, see the faint shadows on his face. Cas’ fingers, moving in his pockets...Cas’ hands, sure and steady. Cas didn’t let him fall. 

“If you cared so much,” Dean breathes, leaning in closer, so close that his chin just barely brushes against Cas’ shoulder, “why did you leave?”

This close, he can hear the faint whistle of Cas’ breath. He can hear when it turns ragged as Dean turns his head. The tip of his nose brushes against Cas’ cheek, just in front of his ear. Anger, betrayal, resentment, longing, arousal...they all boil together in him. “Why the fuck did you leave Cas?” His hand closes around Cas’ wrist, his grip tight. 

“If you really want to know,” Cas begins, his voice as ragged as his breathing, “then you’ll ask me tomorrow morning.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, pulling away so quickly that his equilibrium swirls alarmingly. “You know? Fuck you. I don’t...I ask you for one goddamn thing, just one…” His stomach roils and he clenches his jaw for one frightful moment, before he continues. “I just want a fucking reason.” 

Cas twists his wrist so that his fingers are able to wrap around Dean’s forearm. His tone turns soft, as gentle as the touch of his fingers on Dean’s skin. “Dean, please. You’re drunk. Let me put you to bed, and in the morning, if you still want to know, I promise, I will tell you everything that you want.”

Dean lets the rage pulse through him once more, alcohol fueling every beat, before it’s just...gone. “Whatever,” he sighs. He doesn’t slump to the ground, but it’s a close thing. “Just...whatever.” Cas tries to support him as he starts up the stairs, but Dean shakes him off. He hopes that Cas takes the hint and doesn’t follow him, but the soft sound of footsteps behind tells him that was a futile dream. 

By the time he reaches his bedroom, it’s all he can do to remain upright. He collapses onto his mattress, the headboard creaking in protest. Once he’s stationary and horizontal, the world stops spinning quite so maliciously. 

A shadow falls over his face. “Go the fuck away,” Dean groans, throwing his arm over his face. “Just...leave me the fuck alone, would you?” He squints up at Cas, still looming over him. “Seriously. Thanks for the ride, but I’m home now, so you can stop pretending to care.”

“No,” Cas says, sure as the pull of the tides. “I can’t do that, I’m sorry Dean.” 

Capable hands work at the laces of his shoes. Gentle wriggling puts slight pressure on his ankle and then chill air hits his feet as one by one, his shoes are removed. His socks are the next victims, which is fine, but Dean objects when he feels those fingers at his belt buckle. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, slapping Cas’ hand away. The indignity of it all is enough to get him upright once more, no matter how much his head spins. 

“You don’t want to sleep in your jeans,” Cas says, infuriatingly logical. 

“Whatever,” Dean sighs. More from the aid of gravity than any skill of his own, he manages to wriggle out his jeans. They hit the floor with a soft thump, followed in short order by the Nice Polo. Dean spares a scathing glance at it. Fat lot of good that did him. 

“Bed,” Cas says, when Dean remains standing in his underwear. His voice sounds tight. When Dean bothers to look at him, Cas has his gaze fixed towards the ceiling like a blushing virgin faced with a Playgirl magazine. 

Heat starts to flicker through Dean’s blood as he watches the way Cas’ teeth catch on the flesh of his lower lip. Cas’ hands, on his body again...To feel Cas, again. 

“Bed Dean,” Cas says again, with more force, as Dean takes a small step forward. Another and Cas finally looks at him. “What are you doing?”

“You say that you care so much.” Cas doesn’t pull away when Dean’s fingers circle around his wrists, nor does he resist when Dean pulls him forward. He can almost feel the brush of that hideous trenchcoat against his bare chest. 

“Dean.” This close, Dean can see the bob of Cas’ throat as he swallows, the way that his eyes dart to the side before coming back to focus on his face. “Dean, what are you doing?” 

“Come on Cas.” Dean’s head spins and the world tilts, but Cas is in front of him. Cas, who came and picked him up tonight. Cas, who broke up with him twelve hours after Dean said that he loved him. Cas, who says that he still cares. Cas, who ignored him for months. “You care so much, right?” Cas’ waist is warm underneath Dean’s palm. His hand still molds perfectly to Cas, like it belongs there. “Show me.” 

“Dean, I don’t--”

Cas probably has at least a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, but Dean doesn’t want to hear them, doesn’t want anything except--Cas still tastes the same, still feels the same. Dean moans, soft, as his lips push against Cas’. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of Cas’ head, fingers sliding through the fine hairs at the base of his neck. For a long moment, it’s just Dean’s lips mashed against Cas’, but then, oh god, then--

Cas softens against him, tilts his head just to the side, and then he’s kissing back, and _god_ , it’s _Cas_ , and it’s been months--Lips move against each other in a slick slide as a puff of breath escapes between them in a harsh rasp. Dean’s fingers tighten in Cas’ hair, like he could keep this moment in his hands if he just held on hard enough. He’s desperate, dizzy, alcohol pounding in his blood and through his brain; his focus narrowing down to nothing but the feel of Cas’ lips against his, Cas’ hair in his fingers, Cas’ scent pulling at him...

“God, _Cas_ ,” Dean whimpers, rubbing his cheek against Cas’, his mouth next to Cas’ ear. “Cas--”

Two hands rest firm on his hips. “Dean.” Cas’ breath washes over his skin in a warm rush, enough to make Dean shiver. “ _Dean_.” To hear his name spoken in that low groan--Dean’s lips ghost down from Cas’ ears to the bolt of his jaw. Unused to the scratch of stubble, his raw lips ache. 

“Dean, Dean.” The hands on Dean’s hips become viselike. “Dean, stop.” 

Ice winds down Dean’s spine as Cas pulls away from him. He feels the loss like a phantom limb, an ache that settles deep in his body. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and he actually does look it but--

“Fuck you,” Dean spits. He yanks himself away from Castiel and wobbles back to his bed. The mattress dips under his weight, the memory foam surrounding him as he lets himself sink into it. 

“You’re drunk,” Cas says to his unresponsive back. “I’m sorry, but I can’t...” 

“What the fuck ever,” Dean mumbles into his pillow. “Just fucking leave man, it’s what you’re good at.” 

He waits to see if Cas has an answer to that. He almost wants an answer--a denial maybe, Cas saying something like _I’ll never leave, you’re stuck with me for better or worse_ \--

The soft sound of the bedroom door closing is deafening. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Dean’s palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his pants legs, but it doesn’t seem to help. His shirt sticks to his skin and he can’t seem to slow the frantic beating of his heart. He looks around for an exit, but he can’t find one in the shadowy corners of the warehouse. 

In front of him, there’s a chair with a man tied to it. He can’t see the man’s face; he knows that he doesn’t want to see the man’s face. 

“Do it. Be a man.” 

John Winchester steps forward, but it’s not the John Winchester that Dean knows. It’s a John Winchester seen through the funhouse mirror, distorted and grotesque. His features slide, wax-like, down his skull, until Dean can’t recognize any piece of him. What he does recognize are his father’s fists, rust-colored stains caked into the crevices of his knuckles. 

“Make me proud.” 

Dean’s feet move forward. He’s struggling through tar at the same time that he’s sliding across ice. It takes him an eternity to walk to the chair; it takes him mere seconds to face the person sitting there. 

Sam’s terrified face looks up at him. 

John Winchester looms behind him. 

“I can’t.” Dean’s voice cracks with terror. He looks at his father, stomach roiling in disgust at the black, gaping maw that’s replaced his face. “Dad, I...I can’t.” 

“Pathetic. I knew that I couldn’t count on you for anything.”

Darkness oozes out from his father’s feet, snaking across the ground in black tendrils. One set moves towards Sam while the other makes its way towards Dean. 

“Dad, please--” Dean begins, paralyzed in fear. 

“No, I’ve had enough.” John’s voice reaches into Dean’s chest and yanks at something vulnerable. “You’re so damn weak. If you can learn with this--” he gestures at Sam, “then you’ll learn with something else.” 

Sam’s form starts to shimmer and waver at the edges, and Dean lunges forward. “No, no, Sam!” Sam’s body disintegrates under his hands. Dean looks at the empty space in horror before turning to the figure resembling his father. 

“What did you do?” His voice turns shrill at the edges, terror pumping through his veins. “Where’s Sam?”

A jagged white gash splits the black, curving upwards in a parody of a smile. “Where’s Sam?’ Dean demands. “Where’s Sam?”

The air ripples, John Winchester points, and Dean turns. 

Cas is in the chair. 

“No.” Dean’s stomach sinks down to his knees as he shakes his head. “No, no, no.” 

There’s no fear in Cas’ eyes, only understanding. 

“Choose,” John says. The word scrapes through Dean’s brain and leaves bloody furrows behind. 

Vomit rises in Dean’s throat. “No, no, you can’t ask me to do that, I can’t--”

“Choose,” comes again, delivered like the slice of a guillotine blade. 

“Dean,” Cas whispers. His voice wraps around Dean, loosening the barbs of John’s voice. “It’s okay Dean.” 

“Choose.” Sam shimmers back into view, opposite of Cas. A finger points between the two of them and Dean can’t breathe, he can’t… “Choose.” 

Dean’s eyes fall back on Cas. “Dean, it’s fine. It’s going to be alright.” Cas even manages a weak attempt at a smile before he closes his eyes. Dean sobs as his knuckles crash into Cas’ temple. 

He loses count of many times his fists crash into Cas’ body, loses himself in the spatter of blood, and the soft grunts of a body in pain. He’s falling apart, he’s dying, shredding…

He stops, panting, and dares to take a look at the wreckage of Cas’ face. 

Blood dribbles out of the corner of Cas’ mouth, mingling with the blood gushing down from his nose and temple. It coats Cas’ chin and covers his shirt. 

“It’s fine Dean, it’s fine,” rasps out of Cas’ mouth, before his father cuts in with a sneer of “Weak, that’s all you’ve been is weak,” interspersed with the mantra of “Take care of Sammy, take care of Sammy--”

Then, the sharp, acrid hint of smoke, the heat and roar of fire, the sound of his mother’s scream, Sam’s eyes, childish and frightened, blood on Cas’ face--

Dean wakes up with an inarticulate cry of fear caught in his throat. His wild eyes fly across the once familiar corners of his room, now finding danger lurking in the shadows. The fire still roars in his mind, competing with the repetition of _Choose_. He can still feel Cas’ blood on his knuckles, still smell the sharp iron tang of it--His stomach roils in warning before it lurches upwards. 

“Oh fuck,” Dean groans, before he leans over the side of the bed. His body heaves and the sour taste of bile rushes up his throat. He prepares himself for the task of cleaning vomit out of his carpet, but no need. A trash can appears underneath his face just as Dean retches. 

A cool hand rests on the back of his neck, stroking over his clammy skin. “You’re all right,” a low voice soothes, audible even over the wet, hollow sound of every ounce of alcohol he consumed hitting the bottom of the trash can. “Let it out, you’re okay, you’re going to be alright.” 

Dean heaves for the last time, stomach twisting painfully as it fails to find anything to reject. He draws in a shuddering breath, only then becoming aware of the violent tremors shaking his body. He’s reeling, untethered, and the only thing keeping him connected to the world is the hand stroking in long lines down his back. 

“You’re all right, you’re okay,” Cas promises, and Dean wallows in the words. He lets himself believe, just for a moment, that Cas is right. More importantly, he soaks in the feel of Cas’ hands, solid and unharmed, on his skin. Each touch is a confirmation: Cas is here. Cas is unhurt. Cas is whole. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean finally chokes out, his voice thick in his burning mouth. “Cas, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Cas’ hands cup his face and keep Dean from collapsing in on himself. His thumb swipes over Dean’s cheek almost as an afterthought. “You’re fine, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

“No, no.” Dean shakes his head, his eyes darting away from Cas. He can’t look at him, not when the image of Cas’ torn and bloodied face is so fresh in his mind. 

“I’m going to get you a glass of water, all right?” Cas ducks his head, meeting Dean’s reluctant gaze. His fingers trace over Dean’s forehead, thumbs wiping away the clammy sweat gathered there. Dean’s chest is too tight for this; he can’t breathe. 

Before Cas leaves, he brushes a kiss, feather-light and fleeting, over Dean’s forehead. 

The gesture warms Dean enough that the pain in his chest recedes. He hears Cas moving downstairs, the sound of a cabinet door opening and shutting, and the water filter running. He didn’t realize how empty his house felt until he heard another person’s actions echoing through the rooms. 

“Drink,” Cas says, pushing a cool glass into Dean’s hands. Dean swallows and swishes the water in his mouth, chasing out the lingering bitterness. “Mouthwash?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head. “All right. Take those,” he suggests, dropping two painkillers into Dean’s hands. 

Finding no reason not to, Dean swallows the pills down. Cas watches him, but oddly enough, Dean doesn’t bridle underneath his calm gaze. Instead, there’s a strange sort of comfort in knowing that someone else is looking out for him. 

“Do you want me to call Sam?” Dean blinks at the question, looking up at Cas in confusion. “You were, um, you were calling for him.” 

“Jesus, no. He’d be over here, and he’d be all pissy…” A shudder rolls through Dean’s body as his stomach threatens another revolution. 

Cas’ hand rests on his shoulder. Without thinking, Dean leans into the contact. His eyes flutter shut and he concentrates on the simple in-out motion of breathing. Cas’ fingers idly stroke over the freckles on his skin and Dean hums, deep in his throat. He’s so lost that he misses the first time Cas asks “Are you going to be alright?” The second asking is punctuated with a squeeze of his shoulder. 

Dean closes his eyes. When he forces a smile, it feels like ripping stitches. “You know me. I’m always awesome.” 

It’s a lie--he can still feel the dregs of the nightmare clinging to the edges of his consciousness. It’s lurking, waiting to attack him again once he falls asleep. He’s the jittery kind of drunk now, the kind that sees shadows on the brightest day, the kind that would knock off a gas station for a pack of cigarettes. He trails his fingers over the sheets and knows that there’s no way in hell he’s going to sleep peacefully. 

“All right.” Cas doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t argue. “You should go back to bed.” 

“Yeah.” The prospect isn’t appealing. His sheets are still damp with sweat and they stink of the fear of his nightmare. 

“Do you need anything else?” Dean looks up. Cas lingers in the doorway, caught between leaving and staying. 

Dean knows the answer to the question before he asks it; his mouth still remembers the shape of Cas’ name, called out in terror. “Did I...did I shout for you too?”

There’s no judgement in Cas’ eyes, only a terrible sadness. It answers Dean’s question better than anything else could have. 

Shame flushes hot over Dean’s skin and settles in his chest. “Right,” he mumbles, throwing back the covers and trying not to wince as he settles back into damp sheets. “Sorry about that.” 

Cas’ face does an interesting journey, like he’s trying to smile, but his mouth forgot how. “It’s fine,” he says. Another series of jerks and he comes out with, “Sleep well Dean.” 

Cas turns to go and it rushes back at him--the darkness, the smoke, the fire, the blood-- “Hey Cas?” Dean calls. He feels the swift curl of shame but shoves it away to the side as Cas turns back around. “Can you…” He forces the lump of words up and out. “Can you stay? Here?” He adds, his hand falling palm up on the space beside him. 

A tight band of pressure wraps around Dean’s chest as Cas freezes. If Cas doesn’t...The space on the bed, Cas’ spot, waits for him. 

Cas doesn’t speak as he walks forward. At some point, he lost his shoes and coat, leaving him in just his jeans and t-shirt. He doesn’t bother to shed either of the garments before he carefully slides into place, on top of the comforter. He arranges himself stiffly, back straight against the headboard, hands folded neatly in his lap. 

Dean glances up at him. Even though he’s mere inches away from him, Cas seems like he’s miles away. Still, after everything Dean said earlier today, after everything Cas did-- “You stayed,” he says, so quietly that at first he thinks that Cas hasn’t heard him. 

“What?” 

Dean wants to reach out and touch Cas with the same surety he did earlier, but he lacks the righteousness of alcohol. All he has are words, and in his hands, those have a history of going tragically awry. 

“I told you to leave, but you’re still here. Why?”

Cas rubs at his jaw before he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, not seeming to realize that Dean doesn’t want an apology. “I just...I didn’t think that you should be left alone.” He glances down at Dean. “I apologize if I overstepped a boundary.” 

“No.” Dean relaxes into the bed, curling over to face Cas. He can already feel his eyes drifting shut, but he struggles to keep them open so that he can get a last glimpse of Cas. _Back where he belongs_ , a small part of his brain whispers. 

Dean stretches. A small smile tugs at his mouth when his fingers brush against a solid body. 

The last thing he feels, before sleep tugs him back down, is the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s still dark when Dean wakes. Though the sound that wakes him is nightmarish, it's not a nightmare which wakes him.

“Cas,” he groans, tapping at Cas’ thigh. Cas, his head facing the ceiling, just lets out another earth-shattering snore, and sleeps on. “Cas, babe, come on.” 

He slaps at Cas’ thigh (why is he still wearing jeans in bed?), this time with more force. Cas jerks up with another loud snort and a frazzled “Staarph.” His eyes glitter in the faint light as they meet Dean's. 

“Lay down would you? You’re keeping me awake.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows that there’s a reason Cas shouldn’t be laying down next to him, but he shoves it aside. He insistently tugs at Cas’ wrist until Cas finally slides down next to him. 

Something clicks into place, something that’s been missing for months, when he sees Cas’ head resting on the pillow next to him. Despite the knowledge of the terrible something lurking over his head, he smiles. “Go to sleep grumpy bastard,” he slurs, before he pushes up closer to Cas. For whatever reason, the idiot didn’t get under the comforter, but whatever. Dean throws his arm over Cas’ waist and presses a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Go back to sleep,” he yawns, before he closes his eyes, forehead pushing into Cas’ chest. He matches his breathing to the steady rise and fall of Cas’ chest and sighs when an arm winds over his waist. 

_Good_ , he thinks, before slipping back to sleep. _This is good_.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The next time Dean wakes, the morning sun streams through the window blinds. It slashes through his eyelids and turns him cranky before he’s even fully awake. He groans, then muffles it when he recognizes the weight of a foreign arm resting on his chest. 

The events of the previous night come crashing back into him with all the delicacy of an anvil. Dean’s eyes fly open as he looks next to him. Sometime in the middle of the night they shifted positions: Dean to his back and Cas, still on top of the comforter, plastered against his side. 

Despite Cas’ love of and ability to sleep, Dean hardly ever woke before Cas. Most days Dean would wake and Cas would either be on a run, in the shower, or reading next to him. There was something reassuring about having Cas alert next to him, but Dean always enjoyed this: watching Cas’ face as he slept, the small twitches and jerks of his face, the slack lines of his mouth, and the small wrinkle between his eyes. 

He always liked it but now it feels a little like he’s watching a video he doesn’t have permission to see. At this point he doesn’t know who’s responsible for this situation, him or Cas, but he knows that he doesn’t have the right to enjoy this. 

He doesn’t wake Cas. Somehow, it seems like it would be worse to have to lay next to Cas and face the conclusion of their actions. Even knowing that, however, Dean lingers in the moment. Cas’ arm, resting heavy on his chest, the scrape of stubble against his bare skin, warmth pressed all along his side, Cas’ knee pressed into his thigh--he never thought that he’d ever have this again. 

But it’s a moment, and a stolen one at that, so Dean gently lifts Cas’ arm before he slides out of the bed. He rearranges Cas’ arm next to him, then freezes as Cas groans. Luckily, Cas’ devotion to sleep rivals Rip Van Winkle's, and he just snuffles and burrows his face deeper into the pillow. Dean sighs in relief, grabs jeans, boxers, and shirt, and slides into the bathroom. 

His body aches and he’s fighting a case of cottonmouth as well as a hideous headache. The shower manages to clear some of that away, but Dean knows that this is an all day sort of hangover. After his shower he dresses in the bathroom, tugging on his shirt over his damp skin, before he pokes his head out of the bathroom. 

Cas is still snoozing away, so Dean sneaks downstairs. He sits on his couch for a few minutes, before he realizes how stupid that is. It’s ridiculous for him to sit like he’s waiting for Cas to arrive at an appointment. He might as well make something to eat and shut up the grumbling in his stomach. 

He tries to ignore how right it feels to make breakfast for the two of them. How many mornings did he do this? Eggs, bacon, coffee, pancakes--how many times did he play house and never figure out exactly what he was doing?

Thirty minutes later, Dean hears the soft sounds of bare feet padding into the kitchen. He takes a breath to steel himself before he turns around. Cas leans against the wall in the kitchen, cracking his knuckles. 

“It smells good,” he finally offers. 

Dean takes pity on him and hands him a mug of coffee. Cas cradles it in his hands as he looks at Dean like he just handed him the Holy Grail instead of a cheap mug filled with a K-cup of grocery store coffee. 

“I figured that you would, um, want something,” Dean says, after a few seconds pass and Cas doesn’t do anything else other than hold the mug close to his chest. “To eat.” He gestures at the food, which, he belatedly realizes, is entirely too much for two people. 

They’re both so desperate to avoid the kissing cuddling elephant in the room, that they’re paralyzed. It lasts through the dividing of food and into the eating of food. He never realized how much he hates the sound of chewing. After what feels like an eternity, Dean decides to attack it head-on. 

“I’m sorry about last night.” It’s a good apology, covers everything from being drunk to trying to shove his tongue down Cas’ throat. 

“It’s fine,” Cas answers, which is his knee-jerk response to anything from a mild inconvenience to a gaping chest wound. Dean thinks that might be the end of it, but no, he opened this can of worms and Cas is going to dump it all out. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it’s not like you. Getting belligerent to the point of picking fights with strangers.”

“You had a question?” 

“Why?” Cas tilts his head, considering Dean around a mouthful of bacon. 

“Maybe those guys were assholes.” Dean shovels an obscenely large forkful of eggs into his mouth but that doesn’t manage to shake Cas’ stare. “Lydia dumped me.” He shrugs, affecting nonchalance. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

Realization hits Dean at about the same time that Cas is muttering out a duty bound _I'm Sorry_. “You didn’t know what was happening,” he says, staring at Cas. Cas blinks back, obviously not seeing Dean's point. “Last night, when you came to pick me up. You didn’t know why.” 

“No. The bartender never told me and you weren’t in the position of giving an explanation.” 

“Why did you come?”

Cas tilts his head to the side, so far that his ear almost rests on his shoulder. His lips purse as he regards Dean. “I thought that you needed me,” he answers, like it’s obvious, like Dean shouldn’t even have to ask. “Of course I was coming.” 

He remembers sitting in the coffee shop, telling Cas _You can’t just say that shit_ , and it’s true. Cas alternates between being an emotionless robot and spewing out sentimental drivel that makes Dean’s toes curl. 

“Cas,” Dean says, but finds that he has nothing else to say. Warmth blooms in his chest when he considers the easy way Cas just drops the words. _Of course I was coming_. Like it wasn’t even a decision, the same way that breathing isn’t a conscious decision. 

He’s not there yet. He can’t quite bury the last little bits of resentment, nor can he fully erase the last bits of hurt from his brain. He still can’t bring himself, now, in the harsh light of day, to ask the all-important question, the one that Cas promised him he would answer. 

_Why did you end it_? 

He’s not ready to hear the answer. But, he thinks, as he watches Cas shove his feet into his shoes before they set out to fetch his car, maybe one day he will be. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	27. what if there is no other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The performance review.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's good news my loves! After this, I anticipate about three chapters?   
> Thank you for staying with me through this odyssey. <3 <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Adler’s in his room again. 

Dean grits his teeth as he continues to teach his lesson. Listening to _Civil Disobedience_ has never been so painful as when he has Adler’s smug face in his room. He walks his students through the concepts and tries to ignore the scribbling just a few rows behind him. 

“He’s always here,” Inias says one day, after taking a quick peek into the classroom and then coming back out into the hallway. “I don’t understand. Did you lose a bet?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean answers, but from the look on Inias’ face, he can tell that evasion isn't going to satisfy him. “Look, he’s just doing an evaluation on my performance. It’s nothing that you guys did.” 

“He’s a jerk. What happens if he decides that he doesn’t like you?” 

“That’s not going to happen,” Dean answers, like that thought isn’t the same one that runs through his head every night before he falls asleep. 

Inias gives him another version of his look. It’s strangely reminiscent of Cas’ when he senses that someone’s trying to bullshit him. “It’s going to be fine. Just...pretend that he’s not there.” Inias rolls his eyes. “Or, do like I do, and pretend he’s on fire.” He finally gets a look from Inias that borders on satisfied. 

Inias isn’t the only one of his students who notices something wrong: Alfie also takes to examining the room carefully before he enters, and Dean keeps an extra close eye on Max whenever Adler is in his room. He doesn’t quite trust her to not try and steal his wallet or possibly really set him on fire. Not that he’d necessarily mind, but it certainly would raise several questions that he’s not quite ready to answer. 

He doesn’t know what conclusion Adler’s drawing from his repeated observations, other than the fact that Dean’s students hate him to the point of some uncivil disobedience. Adler’s face is always a mask and he never stops to discuss the results of the observations with him. Dean thinks that violates some sort of rule, but he’s not sure and he’s too busy with other tasks to look up the rules.

His portfolio is coming along nicely. Over the years he’s kept folders full of examples of students’ work, and they easily fill up his binder, along with lesson plans from this year and years previous. He also has various certificates from conferences and talks he’s attended, as well as results from assessments his students have taken. All in all, he doesn’t think that it’s too presumptuous to say his portfolio is an impressive piece of work. When he flips through the pages, he can’t help but smile. He almost snaps a few pictures to send to Cas, but he stops himself at the last minute.

He and Cas haven’t talked since Dean drove him to pick up his car on Saturday morning. On the one hand it feels like a cop-out--Cas helped him out and Dean’s response is to ghost him. On the other hand, what would he say? _Thanks for giving my drunk ass a ride home, not getting angry when I frenched you, and then cuddling me until I fell asleep. Want to have a very awkward phone conversation?_

No, silence is probably the best course of action. Still, the guilt gnaws at him, only compounded by the sight of Cas’ forgotten trenchcoat hanging forlornly over one of his kitchen chairs. Dean runs his fingers over the fabric before he forcibly gets ahold of himself. The trenchcoat is relegated to a hanger in his coat closet and Dean ignores the obvious conversation starter: _I have your coat, when do you want me to give it back to you?_

He does talk to Sam. 

In true Winchester fashion, it’s a quick conversation that occurs over a plate of wings and a pitcher of beer. Jess is conspicuously late, which gives the brothers just enough time to have an awkward non-conversation. 

“I’m sorry that I…” Dean waves his hand in Sam’s direction, hoping that his brother gets the point. “You pulled a dick move, but I guess that you had your reasons.” 

“Wow.” Sam’s face has a definite bitchy twist to it, but Dean can see the smile threatening to break free. “Eloquent. Positively loquacious.”

“Shut up bitch.” Dean wipes off the foam moustache gathering on his upper lip. “It was heartfelt.”

“Yeah, sure, it almost brought a tear to my eye.”

“Glad I could tickle your ovaries. Can we forget about it now?”

Sam snaps back something pithy and then, as if summoned by the renewal of goodwill between the Winchesters, Jess appears. She slides into the seat next to Sam, steals some wings, and facilitates the return back to normal. 

Dean breathes easier. He still has the performance review looming over his head, he’s still single, and the unnamed something still hangs between him and Cas, but, to some extent, it’s always been him and Sam against the world, and it’s good to return to the status quo. 

“You know, if he keeps on bothering you, you can probably lodge a complaint with the school board office,” Jess says, reaching across the table to take a fry from Dean’s plate. 

“I thought about that,” Dean licks sauce off his fingers, ignoring Sam’s pained whimper. “I would need other teachers--not my friends,” he says, already anticipating her next statement, “to have a complaint. Otherwise it would look just like a petty vendetta.” 

“Which is crap, because it is a petty vendetta, just not on your part.” Jess’ face takes on a particular sort of stubborn set to it when she gets angry. It’s the kind of expression which promises vengeance and fire upon those who displease her. 

“If you get fired, then we’ll sue,” Sam says, which is not as comforting as he means it to sound. Dean still forces a grin and shovels the rest of his wing platter down his face. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Three observations in two weeks. Dean’s sure that’s a record. 

This time Adler stays in the room after the bell rings. Inias and Alfie dawdle for as long as they can, but the warning bell sends them skittering for the exit. Inias gives Dean one last, soulful look before he shoulders his bag and leaves. Dean shoots him a small smile. At least there’s one person who’s going to miss him if he goes to prison for murdering Adler. 

“Well?” Dean shuts off his projector before he picks up his copy of _The Canterbury Tales_. “How’d I do?”

It’s stupid to antagonize Adler, especially when the legal pad of doom rests in his lap, but Dean’s had just about enough. He’s sure that there are specimens underneath microscopes who don’t deal with this kind of scrutiny. 

“Well, your students seem to appreciate your rambling sophomoric tendencies.” Adler scribbles something else in his pad. From his vantage point, Dean sees the dark spiky writing covering the yellow paper. Adler punctuates his last sentence with a swift stab of his pen. “Of course, these are the same students who appreciate memes and sitcoms.”

Dean frowns. As a connoisseur of both memes and tasteful sitcoms, he takes offense to that statement, but that’s not the important part. 

“Can we expect your presence again?” 

Adler’s smile sends trickles of discomfort through Dean. “Now, if I told you that, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He stands, somehow managing to look threatening in a cheap suit. “Rest assured Mr. Winchester. You haven’t seen the last of me.” 

He walks out of the room, practically oozing a trail of smug bastard behind him. Dean forces down the urge to either throw something or vomit, and starts work on the next section of his portfolio. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

October trips into its last week. Dean attends Charlie’s Halloween party, this time dressed as an extra sexy version of Dr. Sexy. He’s sure that the looks he gets for his cowboy boots are all admiring in nature, though, if that’s the case, he doesn’t understand why the fairy princess wrinkles her nose. 

Even though he showed up alone, Dean enjoys himself. Charlie’s friends are a gregarious bunch, and some are even capable of talking about real-world concerns. He’s in the midst of an interesting conversation with Captain Kirk and Agent Scully when his attentions are diverted elsewhere: namely, Jo’s attempt to jump off of the roof and into a kiddie pool. Dean scrambles through the window of the spare bedroom and snatches her before she can make the leap, much to her disappointment as well as that of the gathering crowd below her. Hooligans, all of them.

“Charlie!” he bellows, before he shuffles Jo back through the window. “Come and get your beast!”

“Stick it Winchester,” Jo slurs, digging her abnormally sharp elbow into his ribs. “You’re just jealous.” 

“Sure Harvelle,” Dean sighs as he escorts her into Charlie’s bedroom. “Would’ve been real jealous of your matching casts while you were in traction.” He drops her onto the bed. “Look, I’m going to find Charlie. Can I trust you to stay put?”

A sloppy, sappy smile spreads across Jo’s face. It’s like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. “Bring Charlie,” she croons, wriggling around on the bed in a way that’s sort of cute and not disturbing at all. “I want Charlie.” She drags out Charlie’s name until it’s at least four syllables longer than necessary. 

“All right, keep it in your pants Harvelle.” He turns to leave, but Jo grabs his hand in her freakishly strong fingers. “I can’t get Charlie if you’re keeping me prisoner, so make up your mind.” 

“I like Charlie,” Jo tells him, with the gravity usually reserved for deathbed confessions. Dean nods; this does not appease his sister. “I really, _really_ like Charlie.” She meets his eyes in a way that’s supposed to be significant, but just looks mildly constipated. 

“Considering how much time you spend sucking face with her, I’d say so.” Dean leans over and brushes a strand of hair out of Jo’s face. “You tell her yet?” 

“Naw.” Jo’s eyes flutter shut and she smiles, big and dopey. “Was gonna do it special. Dress up. Take her out. I dunno. I just want her to know, right?”

An ache, unrelated to either Jo or Charlie, opens in Dean’s chest. “Right,” he says. 

Jo shakes his arm. “You should have someone too,” she sighs, her smile turning contemplative. One eye cracks open. “You need to be happy.”

“I’m babysitting your drunk ass. How much happier do I need to be?”

Jo’s smile widens. “You should start talking to Cas again,” she murmurs, almost as an afterthought. “We liked Cas.” 

The ache deepens. “I have been,” he confesses. Then, just because Jo is drunk and most likely not going to remember it in the morning, he continues. “I missed him.”

“Good.” Jo’s fading fast, her grip loosening while her free hand flops around on the bedspread. “Happy.” She yawns so wide Dean swears he could hear her jaw creaking. “Get Charlie.” 

“Sure thing.” 

After Charlie disappears to tend to Jo, being social loses its appeal. Dean clutches his lab coat tighter around his body as he walks down the block to his car. Once inside, he turns the key in the ignition and cranks the heat up. While he’s rubbing his hands together and waiting for feeling to return to his fingertips, he thinks over parties of Halloween past. Specifically, he thinks of last year’s party, and all that followed afterwards. 

Dean makes a decision and pulls out his phone. 

He taps his fingers against his thigh while he listens to the phone ring. For a moment, he thinks that his call is going to go to voicemail, but then it picks up. 

“Dean?” 

Cas sounds surprised and maybe a little worried; not an illogical response, based on the last time he got an unsolicited call from Dean. 

“Yeah, it’s me. No worries, I’m sober. Mostly.” The last vestiges of his buzz are floating away, leaving his head sparkling clear. 

“Oh. Well that’s good.” There’s a pause and Dean can almost picture Cas weighing his options before he speaks. “Though I wouldn’t have minded being your Uber again.”

“You got a free breakfast out of it at least.”

The soft huff of Cas’ laughter is audible over the phone line and Dean smiles in response. Warmth that has nothing to do with the heat blasting through the vents of the car sparks in his chest. 

“So if I’m not coming to get you…” Cas trails off, but the question hangs in mid-air. _What do you want?_

Suddenly awkward, Dean shifts in his seat. “I just...It’s stupid. Forget it.” 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice washes over him, sure and steady. “It was important enough to call about, so it can’t be stupid.”

“Oh, you don’t know me.”

“At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’d say that I do, which is why I can reliably state that neither you nor your reasons are stupid.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Dean murmurs, glancing over his shoulder as he prepares to pull away from the curb. His headlights wash over the road as he tries to figure out how to phrase his next statement. 

“Do you ever…” Dean sighs unhappily, before he decides to just go for it. “Do you ever think back on something and wish that you’d done it differently?”

Silence follows his question. Dean’s about ready to apologize and hang up, when Cas answers. “Not to sound glib, but I think you just described the last year of my life.” 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He finally manages a choked, “Yeah?” 

“Looking at events in hindsight is neither helpful nor comforting, but in hindsight, yes. I wish...I would do a lot differently.”

This is the thing about talking to Cas. Dean knows what he wants Cas to be talking about, but he’s also learned that assumptions and wishes get him nowhere. He can’t ask for confirmation of his wants, so he falls back into the most comfortable habit: self-deprecation. 

“Yeah, I bet.” He forces a strangled laugh. “You should have never asked me to that New Year’s party.”

Another silence follows that proclamation. When Cas speaks, it’s halting, like he’s sifting through his considerable vocabulary to find the best possible combination of words. 

“There are many things that I regret, but spending time with you, getting to know you...No Dean. I don’t regret that. Ever.”

The question hangs over Dean’s head. _Why did you end it?_ Now would be the perfect time to ask. Over the phone, he doesn’t have to face Cas, doesn’t have to torture himself with over-analyzing each expression that flashes over his face. He could ask and if he doesn’t like the answer, he could always hang up, delete Cas’ number, and drink until his liver crawls out of his abdomen. 

_Why did you end it?_

He’s still not ready. 

“Not even when I make terrible puns?”

Cas laughs, soft and sweet. “No, not even then. Though it’s close.” 

Dean pulls into his driveway and shuts off the car, but doesn’t get out. He rearranges himself in the front seat before he closes his eyes. If he lets his mind drift, then he can almost pretend that Cas is right there with him. 

“Glad to hear that I won’t be _pun_ ished for it.”

Cas groans. “I’m reevaluating my opinion.” 

“No takebacksies.” 

“Rules should never be applied retroactively.” Dean hums, flipping through his brain for another pun, but Cas, as usual, throws his plan into disarray. “Have they set a formal date for your evaluation?”

Dean groans. “Way to wreck the mood.” He rubs at his temples. “I haven’t heard anything. Mostly Adler comes into my room and lurks. He scribbles, he sneers, he leaves.”

“Mm-hmm.” Dean recognizes that sound--Cas is making a concession to basic politeness, but his mind is already working on another problem. “And he implied that he implemented the review as revenge for my resignation?”

“Not so much implied as stated outright. He said that with you gone donations to the school would trickle down to almost nothing.”

“Really?” Cas’ voice sharpens. “He said that? Those exact words?”

“I didn’t record the conversation for posterity, but yeah, that was the basic gist of it. He was definitely concerned about money, the little cretin.”

“Hm. Hm.” Cas repeats the same sound with varying degrees of length and pitch. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it?” Dean shakes his head. “I guess you can explain how interesting it is while you’re helping me to polish up my resume.” 

“I’ve already told you; you’re not going to get fired.”

“You’re pretty damn certain on that for someone who isn’t even in the building.”

“The school can’t afford to fire teachers. Theoretically, as long as you haven’t laid hands on a child or stolen money, they’re not going to fire you.”

“Glad to know that I’m held to such high standards.” Dean stretches out his legs and tries to get some feeling back into his toes. “I finished my portfolio,” he adds. “That was a good idea.”

“Good.” Cas actually does sound pleased. “I can’t imagine the stress that you’re under, but please, just keep on doing your job. As long as you’re doing that, you’ll be fine.”

“You’re always so sure,” Dean murmurs, but without heat. “How’d you get so damn sure?”

“Because I know you.” 

He should be used to these verbal sucker-punches by now, but Cas always has the ability to knock him on his ass. The question still lurks in his brain--Why did you end it? It was always so easy, him and Cas. 

“I have to go,” Cas says. He sounds faintly regretful, which only makes the small spark of warmth in Dean’s chest grow. “Listen.” He pauses after, so long that Dean thinks that maybe he’s just decided not to speak. 

After another long moment, Cas finally speaks. For the first time, he sounds insecure. “Will you let me know how it all works out?” Another brief pause, and then the words come tumbling out of Cas in a rush. “And if you ever want to just talk, or vent, or whatever...you know I’m here for you, right?”

A vise squeezes at Dean’s chest, but it’s not wholly painful. It’s bright and feels a little like happiness at the same time it feels a lot like _almost_ and _maybe_. “Yeah. Yeah, I got that.”

After they murmur their goodbyes and Dean heads into the house, he realizes that he wasn’t just repeating a meaningless platitude, that he meant it when he said that he knew that Cas was always going to be there for him. He hangs the lab coat up in his closet, where Cas’ coat hangs, like a promise unfulfilled.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

October slips into November. The days grow shorter, the nights colder, and the first Christmas decorations start to creep into stores. Dean starts planning Thanksgiving and deftly avoids Ellen’s pointed questions about whether or not he’ll be bringing anyone over this year. 

Adler’s visits to his room continue in their frequency and then, for no real reason, stop altogether. Dean doesn’t bother to question his good luck, especially not when his students, no longer under intense scrutiny, settle back down into their regular rhythm. Even Lilith’s annoyingly superior smirk doesn’t get under his skin like it normally does. 

Then he gets the email requesting a meeting. Dean’s stomach sinks when he sees who he’ll be meeting with. 

He drags out his phone and punches a swift text.

_**meeting scheduled with naomi NOT adler wtf** _

He sends another text as his panicked brain adds two and two together and easily comes up with four. 

_**i’m definitely going to get fired that’s why i’m meeting with naomi wtf wtf** _

Cas’ reply comes a few moments later. It’s infuriating in its vague reassurance.

_**Don’t panic. I’m sure that everything will be fine. Just bring the same materials that you would have brought to a meeting with Adler.**_

Another text arrives before Dean can snap off a _thanks for nothing pal_. 

_**I know that she might not seem it, but Naomi is very fair. I would feel more secure meeting with her. She’s not given to being petty.** _

Dean glares at his phone. He wants to continue panicking, but after a few moments, when he actually forces his brain to settle and think rationally, he has to admit that it’s true. Naomi Goddard might not be the cuddliest principal alive, but she’s never given the impression of anyone who was less than fair. And this way he doesn’t have to look at Adler’s slimy face while he tells Dean exactly everything that he’s ever done wrong in his life. 

Still. It’s a meeting with the principal of his school who could legitimately fire him. Dean doesn’t think that he’s being unreasonable to panic a little. He texts as much to Cas and then waits for a response.

Things have been...interesting between the two of them, since his phone call two weeks previous. He texts Cas every few days: innocuous observations, amusing anecdotes. He sends several Scholastic Bowl clues; without fail, Cas answers them correctly, with such speed Dean knows he didn’t Google the answer. For his part, Cas tells him that he ran into Claire or Alex on campus and passes on their well-wishes, or offers up a sardonic assessment of his students’ intelligence, or lack thereof. 

Too much tension lurks between them for these texts to be strictly friendly, and they’re both careful to keep their words on the right side of flirtatious. But they’re more than casual, and each time Dean sends a text, he eagerly waits for the reply. 

_**It’s not unreasonable to panic but don’t let that cloud your judgement. Treat this seriously and with respect, but you also want to give the impression that this whole review was nothing more than an unfortunate waste of time**_. 

Another pause and then--

_**I once watched you bluff $70 out of a pool game. You can bluff your way through this**_.

Dean smiles at the memory--It had been at the Roadhouse, where a loud-mouthed asshole had been a little vocal in his appreciation of Jo and Jess’ assets. Rather than give into his first impulse, which was just to let Jo and Jess have at him, Dean had slid out of his seat, giving everyone there an exaggerated wink. Two games and $70 later, the asshole had slunk out of the Roadhouse with his tail between his legs and Cas had quickly ushered Dean into the Impala, his mouth hot on Dean’s neck once they were out of sight. 

They hadn’t even made it home that night. Instead, they’d fallen into the backseat, Cas’ hands insistent on Dean’s belt buckle and his mouth cutting off Dean’s admittedly half-hearted protests. Dean had come, hard and fast, into the relentless suction of Cas’ mouth, had held Cas and muffled his moans with his mouth as he jerked him to completion. Then they’d driven back to Dean’s house and gone to bed, trading languid, fucked-out kisses until they fell asleep. 

Dean licks suddenly dry lips. There’s no way that Cas doesn’t remember how that night ended, none at all. He waits for the familiar emotions to surface: the longing ( _we had such good times; we were so good_ ), the anger ( _why the fuck would Cas ever want to end something that good, that easy?_ ), but this time there’s a strange stirring of hope that joins the mix ( _Does Cas want that again? Do I want that again?_ ). 

Dean knows that until the day they put him in the ground, a piece of him will always be in love with Cas. What he doesn’t know is if more than a little piece of him is in love with Cas; if that love still lurking dormant in his heart could be fanned to the same inferno as before. If, perhaps, it could be bigger, better. If Cas wants that as well. 

With effort, Dean pushes away those thoughts and sets them in the back of his mind, to be examined at a later date. For now, he offers up a generic reply to Cas: enough to be polite, but not so much that Cas would be able to guess the turmoil currently twisting Dean’s brain. 

He thinks (he knows) what he wants. But he still has his career to think of. Later, he’ll take that box out and examine the contents carefully and thoughtfully. For now, he leaves it alone. 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

At 3:45 on Thursday afternoon, Dean paces outside Naomi Goddard’s office. The heavy oak door is shut, giving no hint as to what awaits him. For all he knows, she could have assembled an entire crew, from the superintendent down to the custodial staff, to tell Dean just how he’s lacking. 

Just as he’s finished this horrific thought, the door opens, revealing nothing except the woman herself. Goddard is a deceptively simple, strangely ageless woman. She has an impressive collection of pantsuits, and her dark auburn hair is pulled into an austere bun which makes Dean’s scalp ache.

She welcomes him into her office with a polite greeting that Dean barely manages to return. His portfolio is clutched in his increasingly sweaty hands. It feels like such a fragile thread to hang his hopes upon--his entire career, encompassed in a 3” binder. 

The certificates, diplomas, and awards on Naomi’s walls glower down at him. Dean shifts under their imagined weight, reminding himself to sit up straighter as Naomi sits down behind her desk. She folds her hands before she surveys him. 

“First of all Mr. Winchester, I want to offer you my sincerest apologies.” 

Dean blinks, sure that years of listening to his music as loudly as he possibly can have finally taken their toll. Thankfully, Naomi is either unaware or uncaring of his confusion, and continues. 

“It’s only recently come to my attention that another member of this administration launched a performance review of your teaching methods. This of course, was not authorized by me, nor would it have been if the administrator had gone through the proper procedure for initiating such a review.” Naomi meets Dean’s eyes with an excess of gravity. “Mr. Winchester, I have always felt lucky to have you on the staff here at Lawrence High.”

Dean’s heart beats so fast he’s afraid that it’s visible through his shirt. He tries to think of something to say so that he convince Naomi that she’s making the right choice, but his brain seems to have taken an impromptu vacation. All he can come out with is a strangled, “Thank you. I...I appreciate that.” 

Dean thinks that Naomi might be giving him her version of a smile. The lines around her mouth seem to lessen in severity for a moment. Then she returns to normal as she says, “I feel as though you’re owed some explanation.” 

“I...that would be nice,” Dean finally offers. 

“Earlier this week I received a worried call from a parent of one of your students. This student was concerned because his favorite teacher was under what seemed to be an abnormal amount of scrutiny, especially considering that the teacher had never been anything except helpful and informative in the classroom.”

Inias, it has to be. Normally he would be miffed that one of his kids played tattle-tale, but now, with the slowly dawning realization of his salvation, Dean can’t be anything but grateful. 

“This mother was reasonably concerned and asked about the progress of this evaluation. She also wanted to offer her own assurances that this particular teacher was both competent and caring.” Naomi offers him that not-smile again, just in case Dean can’t tell that he’s the teacher in question. 

His muscles finally start to unclench. He sits back into the leather chair, so much more comfortable than the one in Adler’s office. “As you can imagine,” Naomi continues, “I was confused as to what this student was referring to, as I had authorized no such review. I decided to discreetly investigate and,” her brows draw together in clear disapproval, “I was perturbed at what I found.

“This particular administrator had taken it upon himself to not only waste hours in a pointless, petty review, but was also gathering support from parents in order to make his case in front of the School Board office, going above my head to do so.” 

Dean’s heart, which had been falling back into a comfortable rhythm, does a quick jump when he belatedly realizes the danger of his position. To be brought in front of the School Board--even if there was no evidence of wrong-doing, it would have been a victory for Adler to just get him there. 

“Upon discovering this, I continued my investigation. It seems that this administrator had been doing quite a number of things behind my back--there were several complaints from other faculty members about this particular person. Normally, I would call the timing of these complaints coincidental in the extreme, but they weren’t from faculty members with whom you’re close. Therefore, I chose to treat them as legitimate, and the concerns they raised were extreme.”

His mind reels under the onslaught of information. He hadn’t told Jo, Ellen, Charlie, or Benny about his review. They would either smother him with their help, or, in Charlie’s case, most likely commit a minor felony to help him. What other faculty members could have lodged complaints against Adler? As far as Dean knew, he was the only one on the man’s shit-list.

“There were also letters from some former students of yours. These I will regard as more than a coincidence.” Naomi passes a thin packet of papers across her desk towards him. Dean accepts them with numb fingers. “However, from the look on your face, I’m guessing that you didn’t know about them?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation before she continues. “Your students are quite complimentary of you, which is a feat for any teacher.” 

Unable to stop himself, Dean flips through the papers. They’re email print-outs, and as he scans through the addresses, he recognizes the names--Krissy Chambers, Patience Turner, Kevin Tran, Claire Novak. He lands on the letter from Alex Jones, and as he reads, he tries to blink away the prickling behind his eyes. 

_I had Mr. Winchester for two years and in that time I learned more from him than I did any other teacher. He doesn’t just teach novels; he connects them to real-life. I’m currently enrolled at the University of Kansas, and it’s partly due to him._

“After reading those...Well. Taking everything else into consideration, how could I punish a teacher who made that much of an impact on his students’ lives?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t ask anyone to write those,” Dean finally stammers out. Inias, it had to be--it’s not an accident that all the letters are from former Scholastic Bowl members; the only seniors with whom Inias would have had reliable contact. He’s either going to give the kid an A or an enormous bitch-fest, he’s not sure which.

“Of course not. You make a habit of tackling problems on your own, which, while commendable in some situations, is also unnecessary. It’s not a failure to ask for help.” Naomi looks down at his forgotten portfolio laying in his lap. “Would you mind adding those letters to the appropriate section? I’d like to take this in case they call for evidence at the hearings.”

“Hearing?” Adrenaline spikes through his body, crueler in the face of his seeming reprieve. 

“Not for you.” Naomi’s face twists in disgust. “It wasn’t just disgruntled faculty members that I managed to find. There was also misappropriation of funds, which is a termination-worthy offense.” Naomi doesn’t roll her eyes, but gives every impression of doing so. “The mayor’s office has taken a particular interest, so they’re having a hearing the week before Thanksgiving to further investigate. Undoubtedly after the public hearing, there will be countless others where I will be forced to account for how this could have happened.” The look on her face leaves Dean feeling sympathetic for whoever runs afoul of Naomi during this time. 

Dean offers a low sound of understanding, but it’s half-hearted at best. It all seems too neat and perfect--the effortless assertion of his worth, the ignominious downfall of Adler. These rescues happen to other people, people with good luck who the universe doesn’t shit on. Not Dean Winchester.

“I hope that this has answered all of your questions.” Naomi fixes him with her unreadable stare. “I don’t think it likely, but you may be called upon to testify if the investigation continues. Are you prepared?”

Dean thinks for a moment. “Would I be prepared to testify against the person who tried to get me fired and cost me countless sleepless nights?” An unprofessional grin lights up his face. “Where do I sign up?”

Naomi’s certificates and pantsuit radiate polite disapproval, but Dean smiles again. “I apologize,” he says, metaphorically crossing his fingers. “It’s just good to hear this news.” 

That seems to mollify her. “Yes. Well, I could understand that it’s been a stressful time for you. My advice? Thanksgiving break is rapidly approaching. Spend it with your loved ones and try to put this unpleasantness behind you.” This time Naomi manages a smile that Dean would term a ‘Public Relations’ expression. “Have a good day Mr. Winchester.” 

Dean leaves her office, sans portfolio and crushing weight of despair. He’s shellshocked as he returns to his room. The world looks so much different when he’s not in fear for his job--not even the faint crackle and buzz of his fluorescent lights can dim his mood. 

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. A message from Cas waits for him. 

_**How did your meeting go?** _

Dean grins at the screen as he taps out a reply. 

_**boy do i ever have a story to tell you** _

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	28. discover some new truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth begins to come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now my loves! <3 <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean’s definitely going to Adler’s hearing. A better person than him would, perhaps, resist the urge to gloat over a former opponent, but at heart, Dean’s always been a little bit of a bastard. He’s not so much worried about avoiding gloating as he is coordinating his outfit with the ‘Down with Adler’ poster he intends to make. 

In the end, he nixes the poster idea, if only because he’s not nearly artsy-craftsy enough to make an appropriately scathing piece of art to commemorate the occasion. He does attend the hearing, held in one of the small meeting rooms at City Hall. He settles in to a seat close to the back of the room. He would have picked a seat right up front, except for the fact that Mayor Michael Milton sits at the center of a semicircle of important looking people. Much as he wants Adler to have a first-hand view of his smiling face, Dean still remembers New Year’s. He doesn’t want Mayor Micheal’s eyes on him any more than strictly necessary.

There’s a lot of technical, legal jargon in the hearing, but cut past the terminology and it turns simple: Adler was approaching potential donors and promising them new, innovative programs if they would only put forward a small donation, then pocketing the majority of their money. Any programs that did appear were smaller and less successful than originally promised, which Adler blamed on a lack of funding. And the carousel of fraud continued to turn. 

From the first five minutes of the hearing, it’s obvious that Adler is toast. Michael attacks with a ferocity seldom seen outside shark infested waters. He delivers one-liners so barbed that Dean almost expects them to leave bloody furrows in their wake. A TV crew lurks in the back of the room and occasionally, Michael will glance their way, usually during a statement about the importance of education or the need to punish, to the fullest extent of the law, those who attempt to defraud the public. 

It’s a masterful performance. By its end, Dean is almost ready to applaud. “This session will adjourn to discuss further punitive measures,” Mayor Michael says as he stands. He spares one last, disgusted glance towards where Adler sits, before he walks with the rest of the committee to an adjoining room. 

The small audience files out, but Adler lingers, most likely still reeling from the metaphorical beating he just took. Dean says nothing, just watches beads of sweat trickle down his bald pate. It’s supremely satisfying. 

Adler’s so defeated that, when he catches sight of Dean, he can’t even summon his customary sneer. All he manages is a kind of impotent fury. “Happy now?” he asks, like this whole situation is somehow Dean’s fault. 

“I’m thrilled,” Dean answers. No one ever said he had to be gracious in victory. “Looks like you’re going to the big house.” A jail sentence was definitely one of the punitive measures discussed. 

“Gloat all you want to Winchester--” 

“Thanks, I will,” Dean answers, cutting off what was no doubt going to be a vague threat. “I might continue into next week. Haven’t decided yet.” 

“You and I both know that it’s only a matter of time before you screw up, with that attitude you’ve got. Trust me, you’ll be where I am soon enough.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be stealing money any time soon, so I probably won’t be fired or prosecuted.” He fixes a huge, false smile on his face. “Hey. When you’re sitting in an ugly-ass orange jumpsuit, remind me to bring you a pack of smokes!”

He almost reaches out to clap Adler on the shoulder, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t want his hand to rot away. Instead he just grins at him, deliberately annoying, and walks away. “See you again, never!” he calls out, waving a hand in dismissal. 

That night, he sleeps like an angel.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

A week later, Dean is still buoyant. His students notice the difference but most are willing to chalk it up to the approaching Thanksgiving break. Dean is more than willing to let them think so. A few comment on Adler’s fall from grace; most agree that he was a prick who deserved what he got. In the back of the room, Inias smiles, private and pleased. Dean meets his eyes and hopes that Inias understands the gratitude he feels. 

From the sunniness of the smile reflected back at him, Dean thinks that he does. 

The Monday afternoon before Thanksgiving, Dean finalizes Thursday’s menu with Jess and Ellen. He relaxes back onto the counter, a rookie move with a master tactician. Ellen narrows in on that mistake with military precision. 

“So, can we expect a guest this year?”

Dean sighs. He’s been over this before with Ellen. Nothing, short of Dean’s solitary presence at the table, will convince her that he’s not going to sneak Cas in under his coat. 

Upon hearing his repeated denial, Ellen nods. “Just wondering. Jo said that you’d been talking to him, so you know...just wondered.” 

“Jo’s got a big mouth,” Dean answers. “Talking isn’t the same as wanting to spend the day together.”

“Which is what I told her,” Ellen agrees easily. “But you know, she worries about you.”

Dean almost rolls his eyes. The thought of snot-nosed Jo worrying about him is ludicrous. Ellen ignores the look on his face as she smiles. “Sam has Jess, she’s got Charlie...she just wants you to be happy.” 

“I am happy,” Dean argues. It’s not a lie. He’s got his job, his family, his friends...He’s happy. 

He could be happier.

“I know sweetie.” Ellen turns her attention to the dishes. Dean interprets the action as meaning that the conversation is over. Another rookie mistake. “You’re in a good place right now, and I wouldn’t want to mess with that. I just can’t help wondering if you could be in a better place.”

Since that’s the same thing Dean was wondering, he doesn’t answer her.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Released from the campus of KU for her Thanksgiving break, Claire Novak bursts into Dean’s room like a well-accessorized tornado. 

“Winchester,” she greets him, ignoring the incredulous looks of his juniors as she walks towards his desk at the back of the room. 

“Novak,” Dean says, warily. “Wasn’t aware that you were paroled that early.” 

Claire drops into a chair, unconcerned with the amount of eyes focused on her. “Got out on good behavior,” she answers. 

“Yeah well, stretch that out for another thirty minutes.” Thirty minutes. He can survive thirty minutes with Claire in his room.

Claire grins and pops her gum like a threat. 

Thirty minutes is a damn eternity.

\---

Thankfully, Dean escapes with little more than frayed nerves and a soreness which comes from clenching his jaw on dozens of half-uttered curses. After the afternoon bells rings, Claire stretches and regards him. 

“Heard that the witch is dead,” she says. 

“I think in this case it would be the wizard, but yes.” Dean performs his end of day routines. “Last I heard, city council was discussing punitive measures. He’ll probably end up with just a fine, but we can always hope.”

“The evil has been defeated,” is all that Claire offers, but satisfaction shines from her every pore.

“Thanks for your part in that. That letter was...If you’d written half as well in my class as you did there, you could have pulled out more than a B average.” Dean smiles. “Didn’t know if you wrote it because you liked me that much or if you hated Adler more.” 

Claire shrugs. “Can’t it be both? Heard that you were in trouble and heard who it was from--even if Milton hadn’t suggested it, Alex and I would have done something anyway. Alex had the idea to get in touch with the rest of the team. We figured that the more letters you had from smarty-pants colleges, the better it would look for you.” 

“Well, you weren’t wrong.” Dean ignores the small voice in the back of his mind telling him that he’s missing something. “When Goddard brought out those letters, I thought that she was even going to smile. I didn’t know that she--” The shoe drops and Dean freezes. “What do you mean if Milton hadn’t asked?”

Claire’s smile drops and her eyes widen in an expression best described as oh shit. “Claire?” Dean asks, his tone turning to the particular teacher steel of _tell the truth right now and we can work this out_. “What did Milton ask?”

“It wasn’t anything big,” she tries, her voice smaller than Dean’s even heard it before. “He ran into me and Alex after class one day and we were talking about last year’s Scholastic Bowl before he accidentally mentioned that he’d heard you were in trouble.” Claire shrugs. “Alex and I always hated Adler--he treated her like a juvenile delinquent and me like some kind of degenerate. When he said that it would probably help you if we just emailed Goddard about what a good teacher you were and how much you had helped ...we wanted to help.” She offers Dean a hesitant smile. “It wasn’t even a lie, what I wrote. You really were one of the best teachers I ever had.” 

Dean’s suspicious of the story for several reasons. Cas running into Claire and Alex on the eve of his review seems a little too convenient. Also, he’s been in conversations and arguments with Cas--the man doesn’t ‘accidentally’ mention anything that he doesn’t want to. 

“And Milton told you not to mention it?” Dean prompts. He’s pretty sure what he’s going to hear, but he’d like it confirmed. 

Claire offers him the same hesitant smile, puppyish in her desire to please. “Not in so many words. We just figured that it would be best to leave his name out of it, since he wasn’t a teacher at the school anymore. Plus, he did say that you and him had gotten into some kind of fight and you weren’t really on speaking terms anymore.” Claire tilts her head in consideration, deadly curiosity on her features. “Did you two break up?”

Dean chokes on nothing but air. “What the--” He composes himself, though he knows that his face is still a vivid red. “We can’t talk about that,” he says primly. 

Claire shrugs. “Why not? I’m not a student and he doesn’t even teach here anymore, so I don’t see the big deal. We always thought that you two had a thing for each other.” She drops that piece of knowledge like an afterthought.

“We?”

“You know...the team.” She raises her eyebrows at Dean’s stupidity. “I mean...you two weren’t exactly subtle. The looks, the snark, and then you two would laugh over the stupidest stuff…” She smiles at him, something disturbingly paternal in the look. “Plus you had a big hickey after the state competition that wasn’t there the day before, and let’s face it, neither one of you had enough game to pick someone up that night.” 

If Dean’s face turns any redder he might just flame on like the Human Torch. Claire’s expression turns sympathetic. “He’s still totally into you, if it helps. Like, head over heels.”

“What? How do you--it doesn’t matter,” Dean says. His tongue trips over the words, and part of him is cursing in frustration, but he’s not about to ask a college freshman for relationship advice.

“Wow, you two are idiots,” said freshman offers, rolling her eyes. 

“Hey,” Dean objects. “You might not be my student anymore, but I can still…” There’s not a hell of a lot he can do, and Claire knows it, but she pretends to be cowed by the threat. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that maybe you two doofs should talk to each other. Isn’t that what you were always trying to teach us in our Capstone projects? Effective communication skills?”

“You know, you were never my favorite student,” Dean says, after too long of a pause. 

“Lies.” Claire’s smile returns to its full potency as she slings her arm around his shoulders in a quick hug. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back for Christmas break!” She treats this news like it’s the greatest gift she could have offered him. Numb from the encounter, Dean can only nod his head like a bobblehead. 

Claire disappears in a wave of blonde hair and chaos, leaving Dean to sift through the wreckage of her visit. He weighs her words and what he knows with what he can prove, and slowly, a conclusion begins to emerge. 

If it’s true...if he’s right and Cas did what he thinks...Dean owes him more than he can ever repay. What he doesn’t know for sure is why. He has his suspicions, and dare he say, hopes, but he doesn’t know. 

When he leaves his classroom, Dean knows what he has to do. All that remains is to do it, and there lies the difficulty in the situation.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Benny sighs impatiently as he shoots another glare in Dean’s direction. Dean can’t exactly blame him--The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is an early dismissal and most teachers vacated the building before the last echo of the dismissal bell had faded. But Dean and Benny remain, all because Dean told Benny that he needed advice. And Benny, like a good friend, had waited. 

Benny is his last bastion of sanity and unbiased wisdom. Ellen and Bobby are lost causes, too far gone in sentimentality, though both of them would clock Dean a good one for suggesting it. Sam and Jess are similarly disqualified, Sam’s traitor like tendencies having already been displayed. Charlie and Jo are out--Jo’s Halloween confession revealed where their loyalties lie. Benny is the only one who hasn’t expressed a clear preference. 

“Much as I love sitting here in silence with you, I would actually like to go home. Andrea and I were going to start prepping dinner tonight.” 

“So you know that Adler had me under this performance review for a while,” Dean begins. After the fact, he’d mentioned the review to his friends, all of whom were predictably incensed that he hadn’t included them to begin with. “And you know that it got thrown out.”

“Along with a certain bald assistant principal,” Benny adds, with a toothy smile. Zachariah Alder was not well-loved by Lawrence High faculty members. 

“Yeah.” Dean shifts in his seat and becomes uncontrollably fascinated with his shoelaces before he continues. “What I didn’t know until just a few days ago was that it wasn’t just good luck.”

He tells his suspicions to Benny--about how Cas just so managed to find Claire and Alex, how he ‘accidentally’ dropped the news about Dean’s predicament to them, along with a solution. He has other hunches too, which he hedges with Benny. At the end, Dean looks at Benny plaintively.

“Not sure what you’re asking from me,” Benny answers, obviously holding back an answer.

“The hell should I do?” Dean explodes. “He spends the better part of seven months telling me that he doesn’t want a relationship, dumps me when I…” He skips right over that part; it’s still a little too humiliating for him to recount, even to Benny. From the nonplussed look on Benny’s face, he notices the omission, but chooses not to comment on it. “And then goes off the grid, doesn’t tell me that he never bothered to move, ignores me...and then he does this? The hell am I supposed to think? The hell am I supposed to do?”

“What do you want to do?” 

“I don’t know; that’s why I asked you.”

“Bullshit,” and yeah, Benny’s always had his number. 

Dean deflates. “I can’t want that,” he admits. “If I do…” If he admits that he wants Cas back, if he ignores everything that Cas did...It would be the same as telling Cas that it was all right, that Dean’s nothing more than a doormat. It would be the same as rolling over and exposing his soft underbelly to a known predator. 

Benny’s face changes into something unfamiliar as he sits opposite Dean. “Did I ever tell you why Andrea and I moved to Kansas?” 

The question is so unexpected that it knocks Dean out of his cycle of self-pity, which is no mean task. Now that he thinks about it, Benny never did mention why he and his girlfriend made the trip from Louisiana to Kansas. If he’d bothered to think about it, Dean would have said that they hated Louisiana summers and education systems. Taking Dean’s silence as answer enough, Benny continues.

“We used to live in Shreveport, Louisiana.” Dean nods; he knew that much at least. “I had a job on the local police force.” Dean’s head jerks up at that piece of previously unknown information. Benny was a cop? “Andrea...her family was big time into smuggling--drugs, guns, the lot of it.” 

There’s no question about keeping this a secret. Dean knows that he’s going to take this conversation to his grave. “I was assigned the case and I worked it like hell for four months before I met her. She came to me as a confidential informant. We’d meet up in shady bars, diners, clubs and she’d give me information--never enough for a big bust, but enough that I could keep building a case. She knew more, I was sure of it. I thought that she was just scared.” 

“She wasn’t just scared,” Dean offers, his voice cracking ever so slightly. 

Benny’s glance is sharp, almost like he forgot Dean was present. After only a moment, he softens. “She was plenty scared. She couldn’t fake that. But during all those nights together…” Benny shrugs ruefully. “It’s the first rule--you don’t shit where you eat. But she was so brave, sneaking out under her family’s nose, and she was smart, and she was funny when she forgot all her reasons to be scared. I told myself that it could have happened to anyone. Any other officer would have fallen in love; any other officer would have made the same decisions I did.” 

Dean swallows, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s not sure that he wants to hear the conclusion of this story, at the same time he knows that he can’t survive not knowing. 

“I told her that, if she just gave me enough information, I could protect her. I told her that I would take her away. She was still scared, who wouldn’t be? But she finally agreed, and told me to meet her at the warehouse district one night. She would tell me everything that she knew, and then we’d drive away. By the time that her family came looking for her, we’d be long gone.” 

Dean knows where this is going, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. Benny scratches idly at his arm. “It was a setup,’ he says casually. “There were at least five guys there. I was shot twice before I managed to get in the car. Drove myself to the hospital, doctors patched me up. Got a medal from my department.” Benny’s laugh is bitter. “A medal for being a patsy. Made me madder than hell. I threw the damn thing away.” 

He meets Dean’s eyes, suddenly serious. “The point is, when Andrea came to my apartment two weeks later, I thought long and hard about killing her. Here I was, on bed rest, weeks of physical therapy ahead of me, having nightmares--all because of her. She looked at me and she knew it too.”

Benny shrugs, visibly shaking off the memories. “How do you trust someone after that? How can you turn your back on them? For a week,she stayed in my apartment and I hated every second of it. Every time she had to help me move, every time I flinched in pain--I hated her. But she stayed. Even though I was a mean old cuss, even though I told her that I would see her locked up with the rest of her family...She stayed.” 

“I don’t…” Dean begins, but Benny speaks over him like he’s not there.

“Long story short, she gave me the information that I needed. It was someone else’s case by then, they got the arrest. I quit the force and we went as far from Louisiana as we could. The only time we go back is to visit her family in prison.” Dean vaguely remembers Benny talking about visiting Andrea’s family over summer; he had no idea they were going to a prison. “Neither one of us likes to talk about how we met and sometimes I still look at the scars and think-- _How could she do that?_ But then I remember that we’ve been together for six years and not a day goes by that she doesn’t prove that she loves me.”

Benny’s eyes are like lasers, cutting into the vulnerable soft parts of Dean. “Anyway. The point that I’m trying to make is that there isn’t a person on this earth who can’t change if they really want to. And after everything you think your boy’s done for you--you really think that he doesn’t care?” Benny gets up and stretches like he can put the past behind him with only a simple physical routine. Dean follows suit, never taking his eyes off of him. 

“Ain’t nobody in your life that’s done something so bad that they can’t be forgiven. And by denying what you want--are you hurting him, or you, or both?” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The message Dean sends is almost abrupt in its simplicity. There’s no chance it can be misconstrued or misunderstood and it leaves no room for second-guesses or cancellations. 

_**friday at 7--drinks at the roadhouse** _

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Outside the Roadhouse, Castiel paces. Gravel crunches under his shoes as he makes yet another turn. It’s 6:58--absurd to wait for an extra two minutes, especially when he’s been sitting in his car since 6:30. Dean pulled up about five minutes ago. It’s impossible for him to be inconspicuous, not with that car. He should have gone in then, but instead he chose to wait. 

He glances inside. The crowd is small, at least for now. He can’t see Dean, but that doesn’t stop him from looking. 

He makes another turn, checking his phone again. Another minute gone. He’d spent more time choosing his outfit than he would care to admit. It was just drinks with Dean, something that he’d done countless times before. More to the point, it was at the Roadhouse, where the general dress code seemed to be jeans and the rattiest t-shirt one could find their closet. Still, Castiel had searched through his closet before finally choosing a button-down and a dark pair of jeans. 

He doesn’t know what to expect. The tone of the text bordered on commanding and at first Castiel had bridled at the brusqueness, before he realized--Dean was specifically requesting to see him. No matter the reason--good, bad, in between--his brain chooses to interpret the attention as a good sign. 

He chooses to cling to that interpretation as he enters. Ash waves at him, before gesturing to a table in the corner. Heart pounding in his chest, Castiel makes his way to the indicated table. Dean waits there, a beer already in front of him. His face is unreadable and Castiel falters for just a moment before he slides into the booth. 

“Thanks for coming,” Dean greets, rotating the bottle without looking at it. His eyes are set firmly on Castiel’s face, and Castiel fights the urge to fidget under the inspection.

“Of course,” Castiel answers, before he gives his drink order to the waitress. 

Dean takes a sip of his beer and looks at a place over Castiel’s shoulder. Every one of Castiel’s instincts screams at him to run--there’s no way that this conversation ends well--but like an idiot, he sits there and waits. His drink arrives and he gulps half of it down. 

Dean meets his eyes. Castiel tries to find any hint of emotion, but for once, Dean’s face is incomprehensible to him. “So,” Dean says, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. 

“We need to talk.” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	29. time to bring this ship into the shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, almost at the end. If you've stuck with me since the beginning, then you're amazing. If you're just now joining us, then you're also amazing.   
> Also, terribly sorry for that last cliffhanger. I could tell you that I split an extra long chapter so that I could properly hit the correct emotional beats and create a satisfying conclusion. Or, I could also tell you that I'm an asshole. Both are equally true. <3

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

In Castiel’s experience, the words _We need to talk_ are the precursors to truly unpleasant conversations. 

He tries to hide the sudden surge of adrenaline which Dean’s words cause, but judging from the minute quirk of Dean’s mouth, he doesn’t do an adequate job. He forces his breaths in and out, slow and steady, and stills the nervous fidgeting of his fingers. Dean, by comparison, appears as cool and collected as he’s ever seen him.

“Of course,” Castiel says, swallowing the last half of his drink. The alcohol burns down his throat, but he pushes the discomfort aside to focus on Dean. “I always enjoy our talks.” 

“Yeah.” Dean’s face twists in an incomprehensible expression. “So, obviously, you know about my review.” Castiel nods. “And you know how it turned out.” Castiel nods again, more apprehensively. He thinks that he might understand where this conversation is headed, but he’s not sure how--he thought that he’d covered his tracks so well. 

“Did you have something to do with that?” 

It would be so easy to just _not answer_. He could obfuscate and dance around the facts, and Dean would believe him, because Dean is, at his heart, a trusting individual. He could avoid this conversation in its entirety and they would never speak of it again. Perhaps he and Dean would continue to be nothing more than casual acquaintances who always had the faint tug of opportunities missed whenever they spoke. Perhaps they would grow closer, and this lie would dog their steps, always lurking in the back of Castiel’s mind. 

He swore, back in September, when he was confronted with the blatant hurt and pain on Dean’s face, that if he were ever given another opportunity, he would never lie to Dean. 

“It’s possible,” Castiel offers. With that bit of honesty, the vise squeezing his chest relaxes. 

“More than possible,” Dean answers. Impossibly, a smile twitches at his lips. “I ran into Claire earlier this week. She ratted you out.”

“Of course.” Castiel glances up towards the ceiling. The pieces fall into place and he smiles ruefully. “Ah, the dangers of trusting a nineteen year old.” 

Try as he might to fight it, there’s a definite shift towards amusement on Dean’s face. “She didn’t mean to. If you want to commit another crime with her, I think she’d be an acceptable accomplice.” He finishes off his beer and sets the empty bottle aside. “You want to tell me about it?”

Dean might not intend it, but Castiel hears the unspoken layers in the deceptively simple question. If he says ‘No’ or demures in any way, Dean will respect his wishes. They’ll never speak of it again. But it will always be there between them, an invisible, yet uncrossable no man’s land. 

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Castiel hedges. He’s not ashamed of his actions, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he never imagined that he would have to explain them. 

Dean rolls his eyes before he shifts his attention over to Ash. He flashes two fingers and then turns his attention back to Castiel. 

“I don’t know, tell me whatever. I already know about Claire and Alex. You just happen to run into them, ‘accidentally’ drop into the conversation about all the trouble I’m having, and then plant the idea of getting in touch with Naomi. Did you tell them to write to the other kids?”

“No,” Castiel murmurs, impressed at the girls’ ingenuity. “No, that’s all them.”

“Huh. Smart kids.” Their drinks arrive and Dean spends a few moments picking at the label of his beer. “That’s not all of it though, is it?”

Castiel shifts in his seat. “I may have made several overtures to other faculty members.” 

Dean smiles, satisfied. “I knew that was too much of a coincidence to be coincidental.” 

“That doesn’t--”

“Shut up,” Dean interrupts him, with no heat in his voice. “Just out of curiosity, how did you get them to help?”

Castiel shrugs. “Well, Meg and Balthazar were willing to do me a favor--”

“Hold on.” Dean’s hand rises, cutting Castiel off. “You’re telling me that Masters and Roche both did something nice?”

“Well, they technically didn’t do it for you, if that makes you feel better. Like I said, they were willing to help me out, not to mention that neither one of them were particularly fond of Adler. And Crowley…” Castiel shrugs. “I think he just likes creating chaos.”

“You got all of them...how did you even manage--”

“In the interest of honesty there’s something else you should know.” It’s probably rude to interrupt Dean, but if he doesn’t say everything now, then he might never gather the courage to bring it up again. He wants a clean slate, nothing left on the ground between him and Dean. “It might have been partially due to me that the mayor’s office took so much interest in Adler’s case.”

Dean’s mouth opens, flabbergasted, and Castiel hastens to explain. “It was actually you that gave me the idea, when you mentioned that Adler had brought up the lack of funding for programs. It was odd, because he’d never included me in either the planning or programs, yet he was using my name to get money for them. Obviously something was wrong. I just,” Castiel shrugs, an involuntary, smug smile spreading across his face, “dropped a hint in the right ear. It turns out that many constituents are interested in education and have strong opinions about individuals who try to defraud the children. Someone who was trying to get elected could do worse than to make an example out of a corrupt official.” 

Dean stares for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face. He shakes his head, eyes flicking back up at Cas. “I want to be mad at you for being so underhanded but…” He laughs, and Cas’ chest loosens at the sight of the genuine mirth on his face. “How smart are you Cas?”

Castiel wants to tell him that it’s not like that--intelligence has nothing to do with playing politics. He wants to tell Dean that there was no way to grow up in the Milton family, even tangentially, without learning how to lie and manipulate, without losing just a little bit of empathy. He wants to say that just because Dean never practiced twisting people and circumstances to suit his own purposes doesn’t mean that he’s stupid; it just means that he’s a decent human being. 

Dean won’t believe a word, at least not yet. So Cas flashes him a tiny smile and a patented shrug that only plays at humility. “I do all right,” he says. 

“All of this, just to…” Dean shakes his head, his cheer fading as he thinks. “Why would you...Why go to the trouble? Why help me?” 

Castiel blinks. For a moment, he struggles to understand the question. Why would he help Dean? Dean might have asked why he stayed tethered to the earth, or why his body continued breathing while he was asleep. He did it because he had no choice. 

The sentiment is almost impossible to put into words, although he tries. “It was my fault. You wouldn’t have been in that predicament to begin with if it weren’t for me. It seemed only fair that I help out.”

“Oh. Right.” Is it his imagination, or do Dean’s shoulders slump in disappointment? 

“But I wanted to help,” Castiel hurries to say. He hates the expression on Dean’s face, the one that not only accepts abandonment and derision, but expects it. Throwing his doubts into the wind, he says “If it meant making you happy, there’s not much that I wouldn’t do.” 

Once upon a time, his throat would have clamped shut on those words. He would have happily choked on them rather than admit what he was feeling and open himself to injury and pain. Once upon a time, he thought that he could live with Dean’s disappointment. Once upon a time, he thought that keeping his own emotions bottled inside him was protecting them both. 

He likes to think that he’s learned since then. 

“Damn it Cas,” Dean curses. “How the fuck--” Caught for an appropriate response, Dean takes a long drink. “You say all this shit now,” Dean complains. “How much you care, how much you want me to be happy, how wonderful you think I am. Why couldn’t you--”

With effort, Dean stops, but Castiel can guess what he was going to say. _Why couldn’t you say that when it mattered_? 

Castiel finishes the drink in front of him. He has a feeling that he’s going to need the boost. “I’m sorry.” Sometimes it feels like he’s spent years apologizing to Dean. He wonders if he’ll ever be done. “I should have said it right from the start and I should have told you every day.” 

This time, when Dean meets his eyes, Castiel’s heart lifts. Gone is the anger of the past months, the resentment, the lingering betrayal. In its place is something that looks a little more like hope, like acceptance. Castiel lets himself drown in those eyes, allows himself this indulgence when he’s been denied for so long. 

It takes him a second to recognize the faint dissonance in the back of his mind. He finally manages to isolate the scattered thread as the sound of a melody, wafting almost gently through the air. Another moment and he recognizes the particular song.

“This fucking song,” Dean says, a moment later. “This stupid fucking song.”

_Cause I can’t fight this feeling anymore, I’ve forgotten what I’ve started fighting for…_

Castiel shrugs. “I like it.” 

Dean glares at him. “Well, that’s because you have shit taste in music.” 

Castiel bites back his retort; he’s never going to win an argument about music with Dean Winchester, so it’s best to not start. Instead, he just sits for a moment and listens to the song. He remembers all the times it’s played--Sam and Jess’ wedding, the first night at the Roadhouse. Dean had been sparkling that night, dazzling in his joy. If there had ever been hope of Castiel emerging from his path unscathed, it had died that night. 

“Cas.” 

Castiel lifts his head to meet Dean’s eyes. When he does, he’s stricken, helpless. On Dean’s face is all the yearning that he’s felt these past months, the affection that he never thought he would see again. How could he think that he could ever walk away from this? How has he managed to go through his days without seeing this face?

“I asked you here...well, I wanted to thank you for helping me. If it weren’t for you then I might not have a job.” He raises his hand to cut off Castiel’s logical protests. “Adler was gathering parental support so that he could go to the School Board. If you hadn’t managed to step in when you did…” Dean shrugs. He makes it look like an almost natural gesture. 

“I told you--” Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off with nothing more than a simple look. 

“I also…” Dean sucks in a breath through his nose before releasing it through his teeth. He scratches at the back of his neck, rubs at his chin, picks at the label of his bottle. They’re all classic Dean Winchester stalling tactics and Castiel waits them out as his heart beats an uncertain rhythm in his chest. 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Dean says. He looks squarely at Castiel, his green eyes never wavering, and he’s so beautiful. “I should have...Maybe if I’d said this before, it would have helped.” 

Castiel desperately wants to speak, but he restrains himself. This is Dean’s time, Dean’s confession. His only job is to listen. 

“I was so angry at you. I was so...We had something good Cas, and you know it.” A painful lump rises in Castiel’s throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it remains lodged firmly above his voicebox, blocking speech, blocking breath. “I couldn’t understand how you could just throw that away like it meant nothing.” 

_It meant everything_ , Castiel wants to say. _You mean everything_. The words beat at the inside of his skull, burn the tip of his tongue. He holds them in, even though they’re almost more than he can contain. For everything that he put Dean through--this is his penance. 

“And I was furious at myself because even after...Even after you threw me aside, even after I found out that you’d lied to me...I couldn’t help but think--‘I bet Cas would make me feel better’.” Sadness lurks in Dean’s eyes. “I ran to the other side of the country, I tried to find someone else, but all I wanted was you.” Dean swallows. From across the table, Castiel sees the subtle jump of his pulse. It quickens as Dean deliberately reaches across the table. His movements are slow. Castiel could pull away if he wanted. 

He doesn’t. Dean’s fingertips brush against his, before he turns his wrist so that Castiel’s hand rests lightly atop his. If Dean moved his fingers just a few millimeters to the left, he would feel the frantic thrum of Castiel’s pulse beating against the thin skin of his wrist. 

“I still want you,” Dean breathes. The fragile confines of Castiel’s chest shatter at those words. He’s unmade, undone, Dean Winchester has managed to destroy him in a way that he’ll never recover from. 

“I miss you,” Dean says, and the cracks in his chest splinter further. “You were my best friend Cas, and I miss it. I want…” And here Dean’s face completes an interesting journey, before it returns to its hopeful, sad state. “I want to have that again Cas. I want...Everything that we had before, I want again.” 

Everything...Cas’ heart leaps in a bid for freedom as he considers. He could have it all--the quiet nights spent sitting on the couch, his feet tucked underneath Dean’s thighs, the warmth of another body next to his as he falls asleep, Dean’s face splitting in a smile when their eyes meet...Everything he wants and Dean wants it too--

“But here’s the thing.” Dean’s voice is steady, brooking no arguments or deviations. “It can’t be exactly like before.” 

As quickly as it rose, Cas’ heart plummets, tearing a hole through his stomach on its way down. Some of his distress must show on his face, because Dean’s thumb strokes over his knuckles. Castiel takes what little comfort he can from the gesture. 

“I just mean…” Dean sighs and squeezes Castiel’s fingers. He doesn’t let go. “I love you Cas.”

He’s unmade, undone. With three simple words, Dean has managed to reach into the most vulnerable parts of him and scoop out his beating heart. Castiel waits for the familiar spike of panic to rocket through his veins, but it never comes. Instead, a slow, languid warmth fills him, like swallowing liquid sunlight, like the sweetest kind of honey. 

“I love you,” Dean repeats, gaining conviction from the repetition. “And that’s why it can’t be like it was before. I can’t be with you and pretend that I don’t feel what I do. I can’t watch you deny what’s between us and be treated like some kind of dirty secret.” Dean’s eyes meet his, wide and imploring. “If I’m going to be with you, then I want to be _with_ you Cas, every step of the way. I want something real.” 

Castiel’s breath comes in short, quick bursts. Eight years of higher education and he has no words to give Dean, no reassurances, no promises. His fingers spasm, gripping Dean’s hand tight. Dean strokes once over Castiel’s knuckles before he gently removes his hand. 

Though it must be verging on warm, Dean swallows down the rest of his beer. “If I have to pretend then I...I can’t be with you. I’m sorry Cas, I really am, but I can’t be your friend and ignore what I feel. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, the one word that his brain can latch onto. 

“Cas.” There’s warmth and affection in Dean’s voice as well as a terrible finality. “I want to be with you. God, there’s nothing else I want more in the world. So if you…” Here, for the first time, Dean falters. “If you want to be with me, then you know how to find me. And if you don’t…” Dean swallows, pain etched into the fine lines on his face, “If you don’t then...well.” He offers a ragged, bleeding at the edges, smile. 

Dean slides out of the booth and Castiel still can’t speak, his worthless brain stuck on trite phrases like No and Please don’t leave me. Dean stands and Castiel still can’t gather his words, can’t stop him from leaving. 

“I, uh...Huh. Bye Cas,” Dean says. He hunches his shoulders, clearly warring with himself before he makes a decision. One hand reaches out and Castiel’s eyes shut as a warm palm cups his cheek. He leans into the touch, sighing as Dean’s thumb strokes over his skin. For a moment he thinks that he could melt into this touch but then, before Castiel can even begin to savor it, it’s vanished, along with Dean, and he’s alone once more.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

During the drive home, Dean keeps his mind carefully blank. He pays special attention to the traffic lights and the headlights of the other cars. He doesn’t think about the look on Cas’ face, the blend of hope and longing, his own yearning mirrored in Cas’ eyes. He doesn’t think about how Cas leaned into his touch. 

If he were paying attention to his body, he would say that he feels a little sick to his stomach. His nerves are jittery and if he weren’t concentrating so hard on the simple act of driving, then he might vibrate out of his skin. There’s relief in finally playing his whole hand of cards, no secrets left, everything out in the open, but it also leaves him feeling stripped and flayed. 

_I love you_. 

The last time he spoke those words to Cas, it had been an accident. Oh, he’d meant them, but if he hadn’t been lust-drunk and on the verge of an earth-shattering orgasm, they never would have tumbled out of his mouth. But this time, without any coercion, he’d said them, plain as day. The world hadn’t ended. He hadn’t dropped dead. It was almost anticlimactic. There should have at least been a peal of thunder to mark the occasion. 

Dean paces through his townhouse. Several times he tries to sit, but he can’t manage to remain stationary for longer than a few minutes. The more he replays his ultimatum, the more he second-guesses himself. What if he ruined any hope for him and Cas? 

Leaving before Cas could say anything might have been the coward’s route, but he couldn’t bear to be rejected in the middle of the Roadhouse. Somehow, it seemed easier to retreat to the comfort of his home and wait there for Cas to make his decision. Now, with nothing else to focus on, all he can do is drift aimlessly around his house and wait for Cas to call. 

He thought that Cas would have called by now. 

Regret claws through him and Dean tries to force it back. He always knew that there was the possibility that Cas wouldn’t feel the same--either Cas had moved on, or he wanted the strictly friends with benefits relationship from before. He just thought--

The sound of knuckles rapping against his door sends that train of thought into a screeching halt.

His heart takes permanent residence in his throat as he moves towards the door on wobbly legs. If he makes it to the door without perishing of a heart attack, then he’ll be lucky. 

Somehow, he makes it to the door, alive and in one piece.

On the other side, Cas waits for him. 

“Can I come in?” he asks, after a long moment where Dean only stares at him.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Dean steps aside in wordless invitation, luxuriating in the sight of Castiel walking into his house like he belongs there. Dean wants him to belong, wants him to become as familiar a sight as the weary, worn furniture. 

No words are exchanged between the two of them as their eyes meet. Cas is dressed the same as he was about thirty minutes previous. The only thing that’s changed is the condition of his hair--never tame, it now has the rumpled appearance of someone repeatedly running their fingers through it. 

They speak at the same time. 

“So what can I do you for--”

“Dean, I need to--”

They both hurtle to a stop, each looking to the other. Dean finally gestures to Cas. Of the two of them, he’s sure Cas has the juicier story. 

“Dean.” Cas seems to stall out after that, but he takes a moment and continues. “About what you said earlier--”

Dean’s heart sinks. Here’s where Cas tells him that well, he’s thought about it, but really he just wants something easy and uncomplicated, which is certainly not Dean Winchester. 

“I want to be that for you,” Cas says. His voice breaks on several words, but it doesn’t matter, not when it seems like he’s inching closer to the words that Dean yearns to hear. “Something real.” 

“Why did you end it?” 

He’s held back those words for so long that they’ve rotted out a place inside him. On their way out, they tear and shred, and Dean pants from the effort of expelling them. The question lands between them like a seething mass of vomit and this is it, this is the moment where Cas walks away, but no. Cas kneels down, picks up the pile of razorblades and agony, and holds it like it’s something important. When Castiel looks at Dean, across his face is written only compassion and kindness. 

“I was afraid,” he says, and this time, when the words are said to his face instead of splashed over a computer screen, Dean believes them. “It sounds stupid now, but I was so scared Dean. You’re…” A smile breaks out across Cas’ face, small and private. “You’re extraordinary, every piece of you, and I couldn’t fathom how I would survive if I let myself be with you and then you decided that I wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Cas, you know that I--”

When Cas steps forward, it’s well into the realm of personal space, but Dean doesn’t mind. Though his hands itch to touch and explore, he keeps them flat on his thighs. It’s difficult, almost impossible not to reach out, and tiny tremors shake through his body with the effort of restraint. Cas’ head bows, a swift acknowledgement of vulnerability, before he forces his head upright and his eyes forward. 

“I knew that I would never get over you.” This close, Dean hears the soft click of Cas’ swallow and the catch of his breath. “It wasn’t because I didn’t love you.” Cas’ eyes are glassy and a watery smile fixes itself on his face. “I do love you. I’ve loved you from the first time that I sat in your car and I never stopped.” 

Dean’s heart cracks and warmth and joy pours out of the opening. His blood pounds in his ears. If he isn’t careful he’ll float to the ceiling. 

Cas is still talking. Why is he talking when there are so many better things he could be doing?

“And I understand that I hurt you and I know that I can never make that up to you, but I want to try, I want to tell you every single day, if you'll let me--”

A mere foot separates them and Dean crosses the distance easily, his hands reaching up to frame Cas’ face. His lips land on Cas’, muffling the rest of his words. Cas makes a small noise of surprise in the back of his throat and then his hands are on Dean, one at the back of his neck, one at his hip. They act like anchors; without them, Dean’s positive that he would fly away into the atmosphere. 

Identical smiles pull at their lips, until they’re no longer kissing, just brushing their noses together while their grins pull at their cheeks. Dean’s chest flares with a brightness blinding in its ecstasy. It’s been so long, and it’s _Cas_ , and he’s back and Cas, he said, he said…

“I love you,” Cas whispers, his fingernails scratching at the short hairs at the base of Dean’s skull, “I love you, I love you--”

Dean laughs as he presses his forehead to Cas’. Cas laughs too, the deep, throaty chuckle which never ceases to send a thrill of delight through Dean. Their hands pull each other closer, to the point where the lines between them become irrelevant. “I love you,” falls from Dean’s mouth, easy as breathing, and it’s _glorious_ , because he loves Cas, and Cas loves him and after the past five hellish months, Cas is _here_ \-- 

Their lips meet again, sweet and earnest, like a promise kept. It feels like heaven. It feels like home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	30. ever our lives entwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure, tooth-rotting, fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's this chapter and an epilogue!   
> Much love to you all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They don’t sleep much that night. Dean’s not complaining. 

Eventually, they find their way upstairs. Dean moves as if he’s in a dream. Cas seems similarly enchanted: his fingers keep drifting over Dean’s shoulders, wrist, and waist like he’s reassuring himself that Dean hasn’t disappeared. 

Dean’s lips find Cas’ forehead, his lips, the curve of his ear. He drinks in the soft sighs and happy murmurs like the sweetest wine, until he’s drunk on it. Cas fastens his mouth to the bolt of Dean’s jaw and travels down his throat, leaving sweet kisses in his wake. 

They don’t talk, at least not then. Here, in this space, there’s no need for words. Instead, Dean lets his hands speak for him, tracing lines down Cas’ back. Delighting in the resulting shiver, he lets his fingers travel the same path, and smiles when Cas’ head drops to his shoulder. 

By mutual agreement, they make their way towards the bed. The soft thumps of jeans hitting the floor and the whisper of shirts floating to the ground punctuate their journey. Left in only his boxers and a t-shirt, Dean slowly sits down on the bed. He pulls Cas to stand in the open vee of his legs as his hands rest on the spurs of Cas’ hips. 

“Come here,” Dean whispers, reverent, tugging Cas closer, always closer. Cas’ hands rest on his shoulders, bracing his weight as he settles into Dean’s lap. He dips his head, bringing their lips together, groaning softly as Dean’s hands stroke up and down his sides. “Come here, come here.” Dean can’t stop murmuring the plea, not when Cas’ arms wrap around his shoulders, not when he feels the grip of Cas’ thighs around his hips, not when he falls backward, settling Cas over him. “Cas, oh Cas baby.” 

Cas tucks his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. His hands don’t seem to know where to rest and Dean murmurs his approval as Cas traces the lines of his muscles. “Never thought I’d have this again.” Cas’ shuddering breath is hot against Dean’s neck and Dean’s arms tighten around his shoulders in response. “I never...please.” Cas’ face pushes further into Dean’s neck, a silent request. 

“I’ve got you,” Dean promises. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you…”

Cas shivers and shudders at each touch, arching into Dean’s hands in wordless pleas. _Touch-starved_ , Dean realizes, and he sets himself to correcting the problem. In one smooth motion he rolls, putting Cas underneath him. With gentle touches, Dean maps out the lines of Cas’ forehead, nose, and lips. When Cas tries to shift away from his inspection, Dean stops him with a gentle hand on the side of his face. “Let me,” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to just underneath Cas’ eye. 

With a soft sigh, Cas complies, and Dean continues, stroking down Cas’ throat before tracing the lines of Cas’ shoulders. He relearns Cas in those long minutes, the way that his stomach jumps when Dean’s fingers bump up the ladder of his ribs and the small moans that escape when Dean reorients himself with the strong muscles of his thighs. 

He’s half-hard in his shorts, and the hum of arousal is near constant in his veins, but Dean doesn’t feel the need to act on it, at least not now. No, what’s more important is imparting love in his every touch and breath and pressing it into Cas’ skin until he has no choice but to believe it. 

Dean drops his head to Cas’ stomach, listening to the faint rasp of Cas’ breathing, exalting in the heat of his skin through his thin undershirt. Cas’ fingers rest on the back of his head, tentative at first, before they card through the short hairs. “I love you,” Cas whispers. He sounds awed, surprised that he’s allowed to say the words. Dean smiles up at him, as he finds Cas’ hand and tangles their fingers together. 

“Say it again,” he demands with a squeeze of Cas’ hand.

A grin breaks out across Cas’ face as he does.

 

\---

As the night stretches on, they talk. 

“I can’t believe you Mr. Darcy’d me,” Dean teases, stretching forward to bump his nose against Cas’. 

He and Cas are on their sides, facing each other. Their ankles are twisted together, but their hands still roam with small touches meant to reassure and comfort. For his part, Dean could lay on his side for the rest of the night and just feast his eyes on the sight of Cas across from him. 

Especially now, when Cas’ face is twisted up in confusion that brings the word adorable to mind. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he says, his normally low voice turned gravelly by the lateness of the hour. 

“You.” Dean looks at him in mock astonishment. “You’ve never read _Pride and Prejudice_?”

Cas doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Of course I have, I just don’t understand your reference.”

Dean isn’t Cas; he rolls his eyes and finds the gesture satisfying. “Seriously? The big, selfless, romantic gesture with all other parties sworn to secrecy? I mean, you almost tore a page out of Austen herself, big guy.” 

“I see.” Cas purses his lips in thought, before he looks back up at Dean. His eyes gleam wickedly. “So in this scenario, you’re Elizabeth Bennet?”

Dean stares at Cas’ deadpan expression. Cas manages to hold it together for a few seconds before he grins. Dean lunges forward, laughing as he and Cas grapple. The sheets twist around their bodies, compounding the ridiculousness of the situation. Cas ends up pinning Dean, not that he minds. How could he, with Cas’ smile bright and joyous on his face? 

“Ms. Dean Bennett.” Cas thinks, an expression of mock-seriousness on his face. “I think it has a nice ring to it.”

“Not as good as Mr. Castiel Darcy.” Dean smiles lazily up at Cas. “Now all I have to do is get you a cravat.” 

Cas is still smiling when he dips his head down to kiss him. Dean’s laughs travel into the kiss, until it reverberates through both of their chests, until they’re both breathless.

\---

The night deepens, and they whisper confessions into the space between them, fears that they would never dare to voice in the light of day. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid...I think that sometimes I might be turning into my father.” The words come out tiny and defeated, spoken into Cas’ hair. At first, Dean thinks that Cas is asleep. He almost hopes he is, so he can pretend he never spoke. 

Cas’ arms pull Dean closer and Dean goes willingly. He muffles his ragged breaths (not sobs, he’s not one step away from crying, damn it all) against Cas’ neck, relaxing only when Cas wraps his limbs around his body like an octopus. Here, protected by the strength of Cas’ arms, Dean can allow himself to be afraid. He can be what John Winchester would have called weak. 

“You’re not your father,” Cas tells him. Nestled in the safety of Cas’ arms, with the beat of his heart echoing through his head, Dean can almost allow himself to believe it. “You took some of the best parts of him, but you’ll never be him.”

“Some part of me...some part of me is always going to try to be him.” Dean tenses after this admission. He wonders if Cas will understand the significance of that fear, as well as the warning--Despite years of therapy, it’s a fear which hasn’t gone away. It probably never will. If Cas decides to stick around, this is a problem which will exist in perpetuity. 

“You’ll never be him,” Cas repeats. He hugs Dean tight to his chest and presses a kiss to Dean’s hairline. For the first time, Cas’ voice falters when he says, “And if you need reminding of that, then I’ll tell you as many times as you need, for as long as you need.” 

Dean sags in Cas’ hold, hoping that the fierce grip of his fingers say what his words can’t. From the way that Cas presses light kisses to his forehead and eyelids, Dean thinks that Cas got the message. 

Dean isn’t the only one with fears burdening him. The shadows of the night have stretched and deepened, turning his bedroom midnight black. Dean hovers on the edge of sleep, halfway dozing and getting ready to tip into full slumber. It’s Cas’ voice which brings him back to a semi-alert state. He would be irritated, but upon hearing Cas’ confession, dragged out him like a faulty organ, all anger fades from his system. 

“I don’t know how to be in a relationship. What if...what if I’m not what you want?”

Drawing back, Dean tries to get a better look at Cas, but he’s ducked his head into Dean’s chest. Dean presses several kisses into Castiel’s hair and breathes in the faint scent of his shampoo until he can feel Cas’ tense muscles relax. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Dean whispers, hitching his leg over Cas’. “I don’t want some cookie-cutter idiot; I want you. Just be you. That was always good enough for me.” 

Cas’s forehead presses just underneath Dean’s collarbone. Through the fabric of his shirt, Dean feels the impression of Cas’ lips. His heart swells and for a second, he’s breathless with it. All he can do is wrap his arms around Cas and hold on tighter, try to press his love into every inch of Cas’ skin. 

 

\---

Castiel stirs awake in the dim pre-dawn light filtering in through the blinds. A few stray birds chirp outside, and despite the fact that it’s a Saturday and he’s awake obscenely early on one of his god-given days to sleep in, he grins at the ceiling. 

Next to him, Dean sleeps on, body curled towards Castiel’s. One hand loosely grasps at the hem of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel reaches over and traces the line of Dean’s brow, his cheek, his nose. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat as he thumbs over Dean’s lower lip before moving down to his chin. In his sleep, Dean stirs, but he doesn’t cross that final threshold into wakefulness. 

Castiel’s hard in his boxers, and every shift of his body reminds him of that fact. He tries to will away his morning wood, but being in the same bed as Dean, with the revelations of the night before, send his arousal to dizzying heights. He’s dangerously close to becoming intoxicated on the feeling, but instead he swallows it down into the pit of his belly, where it simmers as he holds Dean. 

Some particular charge in the air must work on Dean, as it doesn’t take him long to stir in Castiel’s arms. Castiel watches the subtle shift of his features as he shifts from sleep into wakefulness, and every second he thanks whatever force rules the universe that he’s been given another chance to witness this. 

Dean’s eyes open, brilliant green in the shadowy light, hazy until they focus on Castiel’s face. A lazy smile spreads across his face, one that Castiel gleefully returns. 

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is sleep-rough and broken by a yawn. One hand scrubs at his eye, but even that doesn’t break his smile. “You’re up early.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Hm.” Seemingly uninterested in more conversation, Dean scoots closer. His arm winds around Castiel’s waist, pulling their bodies flush. Castiel bites down on his lip, but not in time to stop the soft moan when he feels Dean’s corresponding hardness pressing against his. 

“Dean. _Dean_.” The name stutters out of his mouth as Dean hums happily and rolls his hips forward. Castiel breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and fights to keep his hips still. One hand clamps down on Dean’s side, causing those vivid green eyes to dart up to his face. 

“You don’t want?” Dean’s grin screams cockiness, but his voice wavers ever so slightly. 

Castiel’s chest twists. The idea that a world exists where he doesn’t want Dean...it’s absurd, ludicrous, like a world without gravity. “I want,” he assures Dean, and this time he allows his hips to surge forward to show Dean exactly how much he wants. “I just... are you sure?

For so long, sex has been a way for Castiel to keep everyone at arm’s length. Dean managed to shatter all of that, like he shattered everything else, but Castiel doesn’t want to fall into old patterns. He wants this to be shiny, new. He wants to be perfect for Dean, in every way imaginable.

“Cas.” Dean surges forward and catches Castiel’s mouth in a bruising kiss, morning breath be damned. Castiel returns the kiss, matching Dean’s fervor. “Want you,” Dean says, his lips brushing against Castiel’s as he speaks. “I’m sure about that.”

And in the old days, that would have been enough for Castiel, but that was when he had put an expiration date on this thing between him and Dean. Now that he’s thinking in terms of an infinitely renewable contract, a declaration made in the heat of the moment isn’t good enough. 

“I’ll always want you,” Castiel tells Dean, and he leans forward and kisses Dean to prove this fact, “but I don’t want to ruin this by moving too fast.” 

“Cas. Oh Cas.” Dean kisses him, long and sweet, the previous urgency vanished from his kiss. Castiel melts into the warm comfort of Dean’s mouth, and somehow, his worries don’t loom so large when they part. “I want you. Every part of you. And that’s not going to change. Is it going to change for you?” Castiel shakes his head as emphatically as he can. Dean tangles their fingers together and raises their knuckles to his lips. “Just let me show you. Please?”

Castiel nods, tilting his head so that his lips slide over Dean’s. When Dean’s tongue moves over the seam of his lips Castiel parts them eagerly. His resultant moan disappears in the scant space between them. Castiel shivers when Dean’s hands slide underneath his shirt, spreading over his ribs and stomach. 

“How do you want it?” Dean asks, nipping along his jaw as his fingers dip underneath the waistband of his boxers. “How do you want it?” Dean repeats, licking a stripe up Castiel’s neck as his fingers wrap around Castiel’s fully hard cock. 

Seeing as Dean is doing his level best to drive Castiel out of his mind, he thinks he does a decent enough job responding as quickly as he does. “I want, _mmm Dean yes_ , I want…” Castiel pants as he thrusts shallowly into Dean’s hand. “I want you to ride me,” he decides, licking his lips at the thought of Dean’s body working over top of him. “That ok?”

Dean kisses him, hard and fast. When he pulls back, his irises are almost swallowed by the black of his pupils. “Yeah,” Dean rasps, already pulling off his shirt to reveal a toned chest that Castiel can’t wait to get his mouth on. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Their hands tangle around each other as they attempt to undress each other. Mostly, they get in each other’s way, but there’s no frustration in their fumbling, only laughter. Dean kisses his way down Castiel’s arm from his shoulder, nipping at his fingertips before he sucks his index finger into his mouth. 

“Oh hell,” Castiel pants, running the heel of his foot down Dean’s side. “Oh Christ. Dean.” Dean smiles around his finger, wicked and playful. That look could turn Castiel into a pile of goo if he’d let it. 

His free hand strokes over Dean’s back to grope at his ass. Dean groans around his finger, teeth worrying at the skin of his knuckle, as he pushes back into Castiel’s touch. When his fingers dip into his crack to tease at his rim, Dean’s mouth falls open in a surprisingly high whine. 

“I can’t wait to feel you,” Castiel confesses. Dean’s head falls forward and he pants against his chest. One hand gropes at the bedside table and a few moments later, Dean pushes the lube into his hands. It’s difficult to slick his fingers with Dean sprawled over him, but Castiel has desire and need fueling his actions. 

The sound that Dean makes when Castiel circles his rim with a single, slick finger is a thing of beauty, surpassed only by the noise which escapes his throat when Castiel pushes in to the first knuckle. “You’re beautiful like this,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s damp hair, nuzzling at his throat and leaving wet, biting kisses in his wake. “Love that I get to see you like this, love the noises that you make for me.” 

“Oh fuck Cas,” Dean sobs, canting his hips backward to steal more of Castiel’s touch. “You can’t...you can’t say that to me.” 

“No?” Castiel smothers a smile into the tacky skin of Dean’s shoulder, before he runs his teeth over the pronounced cord of muscle. “You don’t want me to tell you how gorgeous you look? How much I missed seeing you? How good it feels knowing that this is for me?” He teases another finger at Dean’s hole, thrusting shallowly. It’s enough for Dean to feel the stretch and burn, but it’s not near enough to soothe the ache. 

“Please Cas, come on.” Dean’s mouth trails sloppy over Castiel’s chest, tongue catching on a nipple almost by accident. Castiel hisses at the sensation, sinking his fingers deep into Dean. Dean sighs in appreciation, rolling his hips so that his dick slides over Castiel’s stomach. 

“Just look at you,” Castiel groans, feasting his eyes on the ripple of muscles at Dean’s back. “God, you’re so perfect.” He crooks his fingers to brush over Dean’s prostate, accepting the panting kiss Dean presses to his mouth. 

Pleas fall from Dean’s lips and Cas soaks them up as he teases around Dean’s prostate. It’s never quite enough to please and slowly but surely, he watches Dean fall apart. It’s humbling, awe-inspiring, and he tells Dean that, until he’s groaning and shaking, silencing his whimpers against Castiel’s skin. 

Dean shudders when Castiel withdraws his fingers, gripping tightly at his biceps. “Condom?” Castiel asks, craning his head to nip along the line of Dean’s throat. 

“I thought…” Dean shivers as Castiel cups his ass in both hands and holds him steady as he grinds his aching cock against Dean’s. “I’m clean. Got tested after Lydia, and I thought that, if you wanted...”

A wild surge of lust blazes through Castiel and it takes everything in him not to roll them over and sink into Dean without thought. Not that he thinks Dean would complain, necessarily, but he had a plan. “I’m clean,” Castiel reassures him, thrusting shallowly inside Dean with re-slicked fingers. Dean moans into a kiss, long and filthy, and whines when Castiel withdraws his fingers for the final time. 

“Shift for me love,” Castiel tells him, trailing his clean hand over Dean’s chest, pausing to rub his thumb over a nipple. With gentle touches, he guides Dean upright to straddle his thighs. Castiel groans at the sight of Dean’s cock, flushed an angry red and leaking a steady stream of pre-come. Castiel’s stomach is messy with it and he revels in it. “Going to make it so good for you,” Castiel says as he reaches for the lube. 

“Let me,” Dean says, steadying himself as he takes the lube from Castiel’s hands. At the first touch of Dean’s fingers around him, Castiel’s eyes flutter shut. His back arches into the touch and he pants as Dean twists his wrist around the sensitive head. “Oh fuck Cas, I can’t wait.” Dean shifts forward, wiping his hand on the comforter before he sets his hands on Castiel’s waist. 

“Yes, yes,” Castiel urges, forcing his hips still as Dean takes him in hand. His breaths come out in shallow pants at the feel of Dean’s rim stretching around him, the sight of Dean, his eyes closed, lower lip held captive between his teeth, and his face screwed up in concentration as he sinks down. “Oh god, Dean, love, god,” Castiel groans, his fingernails digging into the strong muscle of Dean’s thighs. “You’re so…” Dean clenches around him, an involuntary reaction, and the top of Castiel’s head hits the pillow. “Oh, _Dean_.” 

Dean stills atop him, his hands smoothing over the planes of Castiel’s chest. Faint shivers wrack his body as he accustoms his body to the stretch and burn. Every muscle in Castiel’s body screams at him to move, but he forces himself to wait, hands stroking over Dean’s flanks and thighs. “God,” Dean groans. He opens his eyes and they’re dazzling, sparkling. Worlds are held within them and Castiel is speechless. “Cas. Move. Please.”

Castiel rolls his hips up and Dean presses down, and it’s like they never stopped. Each movement is perfectly timed and choreographed and soon the only sound to be heard is the faint symphony of pants and sighs. Castiel is incapable of dragging his hands away from Dean’s body for even a single moment and every time his hands touch a particular body of Dean’s body, he sighs and flexes into the touch. It’s the most beautiful thing Castiel’s seen in his life. 

The rhythm they set is almost unbearably slow, but then again, canyons were made over thousands of years. Castiel wouldn’t change this for the world; he wouldn’t lose the reverent look in Dean’s eyes or the way that Dean’s slack mouth falls open as Castiel pushes up. 

They fell apart. Through their own faults and foils, they crashed into each other and while it was good, it wasn’t good enough for them to stay together. They bruised, and they clawed, and they tore, and for five months they remained in their own orbits, heedless of the damage they caused the other bodies around them. 

This is how they come together, Dean rocking atop Castiel, stretched across him so that he can seal their lips together. This is how they are made whole. 

Dean’s fingers fist in the hair at the top of Castiel’s head, pulling his head back to bare his throat as he thrusts back onto Castiel’s cock. “Close,” he warns, nipping and sucking a path down the soft skin of Castiel’s neck. 

“Come for me,” Castiel demands, though in his fucked out voice it sounds more like a plea. “I want to see you.” He rests his hands on Dean’s hips and guides his movements. When he plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up, Dean’s eyes roll back. From the puddle he can feel on his stomach, Castiel knows that Dean’s close, and that he doesn’t need much more to push him over the edge. 

“So beautiful,” Castiel praises, urging Dean to move faster. His hands slam Dean’s hips back onto his cock, and he listens to the moans falling from Dean’s lips. “I want to watch you come, watch you fall apart for me. You’re so gorgeous, you’re so perfect, oh Dean, you’re everything, oh god, you don’t know how much I want you--”

“Oh fuck, Cas, Cas, baby, I can’t,” Dean whimpers into his mouth, just before he spills over onto Castiel’s stomach. “Oh god Cas, love you, love you, never leaving you again--”

In the face of Dean’s elation, Castiel’s own orgasm is an afterthought. He thrusts up once, twice, and then again before he comes deep into the heat of Dean’s ass. Dean kisses him through it, tasting the praise on his lips. When Dean’s lips move over the apple of Castiel’s cheek, followed by a sweep of his thumb, Castiel realizes that he’s crying, a slow leak of salt trailing from the corners of his eyes. Dean’s eyes glitter in the low light and Castiel cranes his head to kiss away the tracks of tears from his cheeks. He’s too full to contain the full spectrum of emotions, and he smiles blissfully, even as Dean wipes away another wave of tears from underneath his eyes. 

“Love you,” Castiel murmurs, pulling Dean closer to him, heedless of the mess between them. Dean sighs happily, nuzzling into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “God, Dean.” Castiel strokes down Dean’s back, fingers playing over the wings of his shoulderblades. 

“Never letting you go again,” Dean tells him, stifling a yawn against Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel grins, his arms pulling Dean’s body closer. “Do you promise?”

“Yeah babe.” Dean stares up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. His fingers twist around Castiel’s hair then down his cheek. “I can promise that.” 

“Good.” Dean’s yawns are contagious, Castiel finds, as his jaw splits wide. “I’ll hold you to that.” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	31. epilogue: dare i say forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memorial Day weekend, one year and six months later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! It's been honestly wild. I never thought nor intended for this little piece to grow as big as it ended up being, and the fact that it's finished is due to every single one of you who screamed, praised, and cried at me. <3

_**epilogue--one year, six months later** _  
_**Memorial Day weekend** _

 

“Dean, love, do you know where we put the extra table?” 

“Check in the shed!”

“Already looked there, thanks,” Castiel sighs, under his breath, but he dutifully heads out to the shed once more, in search of the elusive table. Perhaps having a house-warming party the same weekend that Dean officially moved in was a little ambitious, but it’s too late to change it now. Their guests will be arriving in the next thirty minutes, and Dean’s been agonizing over the grill for at least an hour and a half now. 

The shed is a new addition to his yard, put up during Spring Break when Dean and Benny were entirely too bored for their own good. Dean had been almost personally offended that Castiel didn’t have a shed to house his meager collection of yard implements. When Castiel pointed out that the area under the deck kept everything moderately dry and clean, Dean reacted with the same kind of disgust usually spared for finding dog shit on the carpet. Within weeks, the finished shed was full with products Castiel didn’t even know existed, and certainly had no idea how to use. 

Those same tools only serve to get in his way as he searches through the shed. Finally, at the back, Castiel spies the last card table at the corner of the shed. Rolling his eyes, he drags it out to the yard and sets it up underneath the small tent. “Exactly how much food are you planning to serve?” he calls over to Dean. “Last I checked, neither one of us had the entire army of Denmark on our invitation list.” 

“Hm, smartass,” Dean turns around from the grill. His face is delightfully flushed from the heat, and a single bead of sweat trickles down from his hairline to his temple. Castiel wants to lick it off, and there’s nothing keeping him from doing so. Dean murmurs happily as Castiel wraps his arms around his waist and leans into Castiel’s lips as they make their way up his cheek. Salt splashes across his tongue and Castiel smiles against Dean’s skin. “Weirdo smartass,” Dean corrects, before he turns back to the grill. Castiel’s arms remain around his waist, as he pushes himself up slightly so that he can hook his chin over Dean’s shoulder. 

He loves watching Dean cook, always has. There’s a delicacy to his motions, an artistry in the way that his fingers and hands . Dean gets so absorbed in his work and he’s always so pleased at the end results. Plus, he always needs a taste tester, a job at which Castiel excels. 

“And to answer your question, Mr. Smartass, we’ve got all of our friends coming, not to mention some of your people from the college, and both of our families.”

“My whole family isn’t coming,” Castiel protests, repressing a shudder at the thought. “Just Gabriel and Lucas.” 

“Awesome.” There’s a touch of sarcasm in Dean’s voice, which Castiel doesn’t blame him for. He’s well aware of how difficult his family can be. It’s a miracle that Dean even tolerates Gabriel and Lucas. That only happened after Hael’s wedding, where words were spoken between the three of them. Dean’s never told Castiel the exact particulars of the conversation, and Castiel hasn’t pressed. All he knows is that after that conversation, Anna’s medical bills were mysteriously routed to a different account, one not paid by Castiel. 

Castiel would have loved to have Anna here, but crowds are still too much for her. Her progress is steady, with few fallbacks, but he knows that she’ll never be cured. He doesn’t expect it, and accepts her for who she is, but it still stings that his sister isn’t afforded the luxury of enjoying a simple gathering. It doesn’t seem fair that sweet, creative Anna can’t relax in the company of her family. 

“Babe, loosen up. I need to plate these.” With a small murmur of apology, Castiel slackens his hold on Dean’s waist. Dean turns, setting his perfectly seared burgers on the plate at the side of the grill. Castiel’s mouth waters at the sight of them, and he transfers his hunger to Dean, planting a wet, sloppy kiss at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “You’d better not leave a mark, you damn vampire,” Dean scolds, but his eyes wrinkle playfully. “You know that Bobby and Ellen both are going to be here.” 

“Mmm, do they think that you’re a monk?” Castiel teases, stroking over Dean’s stomach. He lingers at the delightful bit of softness padding the area near his bellybutton. Dean tries to squirm away from his touch but Castiel tightens his hold, going so far as to sink his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder. “I know for sure that’s not true,” Castiel continues, worrying the skin between his teeth. 

“Babe, don’t you dare start something now; there’s no way that we’re going to be able to finish.” Dean’s voice comes out in a breathy, plaintive, request. Castiel knows that, and he doesn’t want to torture himself, but he can’t resist grinding his hips into Dean’s ass, a promise of things to come. “Asshole,” Dean accuses, but he cranes his head over his shoulder to kiss Castiel anyway. 

Tires crunch over the driveway and the sound disappears as the car pulls off onto the lawn. “Behave yourself,” Castiel admonishes, slapping Dean’s ass as he steps away. “Our guests are here.” 

Dean shoots him an affronted, delighted look, one that clearly reads _after everyone leaves, you’re going to get it_. 

Castiel can’t wait.

\---

The fans set up at the corners of the tent help move the muggy summer air around. The scent of grilling meat hangs heavy over the yard, along with the woodsmoke smell from the firepit, also a recent addition of Dean’s. In the past year, Castiel’s backyard has changed in so many ways that it’s almost unrecognizable. 

It’s like Castiel in that way. 

It hasn’t always been easy, combining two lives as separate as his and Dean’s. There have been fights, bitter, acrimonious things that left Castiel reeling and wondering if this was really what he wanted after all. But after the smoke cleared, and the sting of hurt faded, he and Dean always found their way back to each other. They reaffirmed their commitment, their devotion, and their love, and Castiel always breathed easier once he was able to feel Dean’s arms around him once more. 

But for every fight and disagreement, every moment of doubt, there were at least twenty moments of joy. Of utter peace, when Castiel would curl up next to Dean on the couch, rest his head on Dean’s chest, and listen to the constant beat of his heart. There had been the vacation to Yellowstone National Park the previous summer, because Dean insisted, _You just have to see it Cas, come on_. They stood in the spray of Old Faithful, the faint scent of sulfur chasing around his nose and Dean had kissed him with a passion bordering on desperation. Castiel had returned his kiss, gentling it, as his hands stroked down Dean’s sides and back. Eventually, Dean dropped his head to Castiel’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist. 

“I love you so much,” Dean whispered into the crook of Castiel’s neck, like a secret. “Don’t ever...don’t ever leave.” Though it was phrased as a command, the words came out as a plea, and Castiel’s heart broke to hear the uncertainty in Dean’s voice. 

“Never,” Castiel said, rubbing his thumb over the fine hairs at Dean’s nape. “Not for as long as you’ll have me.” Dean settled then, and they slowly returned to their previous light-heartedness. For the rest of their vacation, he was just Dean--brash, cocky, sweet, and devoted. There was never a hint of the fear which had seized him, and Castiel was glad for it. 

A story lurks there, beneath the geyser spray. Castiel doesn’t press for it. Dean will tell him when he’s ready. Until then, Castiel will just do as he has been. Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn’t tell Dean that he loves him. Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn’t either show or tell Dean how lucky he is to have him in his life. 

And he is lucky. Castiel wakes every morning, knowing the blessing of forgiveness and the joy in second chances. And now, with Dean officially moving in, the first sight he sees every morning is that beloved face. It’s more than Castiel ever dared hope for. 

Across the yard, as if summoned by his thoughts, Dean’s head lifts and he meets Castiel’s eyes. He grins and Castiel returns the expression. He never used to smile as much. Now, he goes to sleep sometimes with his cheeks sore. It’s glorious. 

He leans over the railing of the deck and surveys the crowd milling around his ( _their_ , he realizes, with a spark of delight) their yard. Accomplishment settles in his bones. Bobby is deep in conversation with Balthazar, over their apparent mutual interest in historic Japanese temples, while Ellen chats with Hannah. Gabriel has latched himself onto Sam, which seems to amuse Jess to no end. Sam takes it with typical aplomb, even when Gabriel appears to be making himself as obnoxious as humanly possible. Meanwhile, Meg follows Lucas around with something resembling predatory glee. Benny and Andrea talk with Pamela, while Charlie argues code with Ash and Jo watches with bemused pride. 

These are their nearest and dearest, brought together by nothing more than love for them. These are the people who helped shape their lives, and who made them better. One day, when they’re older, maybe he and Dean will even have the team over and celebrate how it all started. Maybe one day. Countless possibilities lie open to them, and Castiel wants to explore each and every one. 

“Hey you.” Castiel has just enough time to appreciate the deep voice sliding across his skin, before an ice cold beer slides against the small of his back. He yelps and twists away, glaring at Dean as he sniggers. 

“Real mature Winchester,” he says, but accepts the beer as well as Dean’s one-armed embrace. 

“Have to say Cas, when you said that these were the people who were coming I was expecting…” Dean takes a swig of his beer as he slings an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Despite the heat, Castiel leans in closer to Dean. “I don’t know. Explosions? Mass murder? Fire and blood?”

“Calm down Dany.” Castiel kisses Dean’s jaw, stubble scraping over his lips. “I thought it would be fine, but it’s nice to be proven right.” 

Dean cranes his head to look at him and Castiel knows that he’s been found out. “Cas? You maybe have something that you want to share with the rest of the class?”

Castiel looks back out towards the yard as he downs half his beer. This is the most difficult part of being in a relationship, knowing when and what to share. He slides a look at Dean, who’s watching him with a patient but could quickly turn otherwise expression. 

“Well, I was just thinking,” Castiel hedges. He knows what he wants to say. He’s felt the certainty in his bones since that first morning he woke up next to Dean, since the first _I love you_ came pouring out of his mouth. Stupid to hedge after that. 

“These people are going to have to get along, at least for an afternoon or two,” Castiel says. He leans in closer to Dean, tucking his fingers easily into Dean’s back pocket. “I would hate to have the reception ruined because Gabriel couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Well, that’s understandable--” Dean stops abruptly and Castiel grins as he watches his boyfriend put two and two together to come up with four. “Hold on. Reception?” He meets Castiel’s gaze, his eyes wide and wondering. “Does that...are you?” A grin, dazzling as the sunrise, spreads across his face. 

“Well, I’m not dropping on one knee just yet, but yeah, it’s something that I’ve thought about,” Castiel answers. “Is that…” he begins, a lifetime of insecurity working its magic on him, “would that be something that you’re interested in?”

Dean laughs, disbelieving and genuine, before he moves. His hands cup Castiel’s face, the tips of his fingers carding through his hair, as he kisses him. Castiel grins into the kiss, his tongue flicking playfully against Dean’s lower lip. Dean groans into Castiel’s mouth, arching into his body as he pulls Castiel closer. Their kiss is increasingly less family-appropriate, but Castiel doesn’t care, not when Dean touches him with such surety. 

A long wolf whistle finally pierces through their fog and breaks them apart. Castiel looks down to the yard, where Jo’s fingers are still in her mouth. He blushes, aware that some of his colleagues just saw him making out with Dean like a horny teenager, but more important than his faint embarrassment is Dean next to him, twining their fingers together as he kisses the soft hairs at his temple. 

“I tell you lately that I love you?” Dean asks, the words rumbling low and delicious over Castiel’s spine. 

Castiel leans his head closer to Dean’s, squeezing at the fingers entwined with his. “Yeah, but tell me again anyway,” he asks, only half-joking. 

Laughing, Dean does. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

Even though the strain of moving has left him beyond exhausted, Dean’s still having the time of his life. 

His friends and family are all gathered in one spot, all of them laughing and joking, enjoying food, and milling around in the backyard that he helped create. Even Masters isn’t an obnoxious as she could be, as evidenced by her surprised face when she sinks her teeth into a burger. “You made this?” she asks, just barely swallowing her food before she speaks. When Dean nods, her trademark smirk plasters itself across her face. “No wonder Clarence keeps you around.” 

“Yeah, I always told you that I was more than just a pretty face,” Dean says, the edge to his words softened by Castiel’s fingers tracing abstract designs over his knee. Masters meets his eyes, with a hint of challenge but also with a hint of respect, which is more than he’s ever gotten from her before. 

“We’ll see,” Masters murmurs, but it sounds like the beginning of a compromise, and Castiel sits next to him, so Dean lets it abide. 

The night stretches on, a long expanse of drink and food. Dean hooks up his phone to the speaker system, causing Jo and Jess to wail their outrage at him. Dean can only smirk as he connects the fairy lights surrounding the tent and yard. Small pinpoints of light illuminate the yard, turning the mundane into something almost magical. 

He catches Cas looking up at the night sky, turning slowly so that he can take it all in. Away from the lights of the house and yard, the stars are more prominent. When he touches Cas’ wrist, Cas looks at him, pinpoints of lights reflected in his pupils. “Stars are out tonight,” Cas says, needlessly. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He appreciates the stars, like one million fires burning in the inky blackness, but he’s more fascinated with how they illuminate the small wrinkles and angles of Cas’ face. Underneath their glow, Dean feels infinitesimal, yet cocooned in the safety of the universe. 

Cas’ hand grabs his. After only a second, Dean squeezes back.

\---

 

Bobby and Ellen are the first to leave, followed by Hannah and Pamela. Dean shakes the womens’ hands as they leave. He’s glad that they came, glad that Cas has someone outside Dean’s own circle of friends to call his own. Benny and Andrea are next, and Dean hugs them both before they leave. While he’s never verbally acknowledged Benny’s role in his happiness, they’re both aware of it. “Take care brother,” Benny tells him as he departs, knuckling at his hat. Andrea smiles and waves as she dips inside the car. 

Their guests peel out, one by one, until only Sam, Jess, Jo, Charlie, Meg, and Ash are left. With a Vegas magician’s showmanship, Ash produces a joint, and they pass it around the table like a bunch of teenagers. Dean draws the smoke into his lungs, then turns to Cas, who looks at him expectantly. With a small chuckle, Dean presses his lips to Cas’ and blows smoke into his mouth. Beside him, Jo gags attractively. 

“Shut it Harvelle,” Dean commands. The smoke settles in his body, turning his limbs floaty and his brain fuzzy. When Sam takes a hit and immediately collapses coughing, Dean laughs at him, while Jess rubs his back and whispers nice, soothing things. “You’d think that a hippie would be better at that,” Dean comments, grinning at the truly epic bitchface Sam shoots him. 

Eventually, when Sam’s eyelids start fluttering and Charlie’s head droops on Jo’s shoulder, even their closest friends leave. Dean walks them to their cars and extracts promises from everyone, even Masters, that they’ll text him when they arrive home safely. Then, he turns his attention back to Cas. 

“They gone?” Cas asks, unfolding from his seat. He wobbles ever so slightly on his feet, but his steps are steady enough as he makes his way towards Dean. His eyes are dark with intent, and Dean’s blood thrills to see it. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, tilting his head up to allow Cas easy access to the skin of his throat. Cas takes full advantage, peppering his neck with soft kisses and tiny nips. “Yeah, they’re all gone.” 

“Good,” Cas breathes, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and swaying in time to the music. Sometime during the night he managed to replace Dean’s phone with his, and a vaguely familiar playlist blares from the speakers. Dean returns Cas’ embrace, grinning as Cas noses underneath the flap of his overshirt to kiss at the jut of his collarbone. “I love our friends, but I’ve been wanting to get you alone for forever now.” 

“Is that so?” Dean asks. He rests his hands on Cas’ hips before he dips his fingers underneath the waistband of Cas’ jeans. 

“You’re getting fresh,” Cas comments, before he grins at Dean, wide and gummy, nose wrinkling with the force of his smile. 

Cas is in what Dean likes to think of as his fuzzy state of intoxication. He’s still plenty articulate and lucid, but he’s a little silly and a lot horny, and capable of making all sorts of bad decisions with full awareness of the consequences. It’s not often that Cas allows himself to indulge and Dean revels in it, even as he finally places the playlist. 

“You sap,” he accuses, scooching his fingers across Cas’ lower back. Cas murmurs happily and idly pushes his nose into the hollow of Dean's throat. “This is Sam’s wedding playlist, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I was feeling sentimental.” 

“Yeah?” They’ve given up any attempt at footwork and are just holding each other in the middle of the yard. Dean hugs Cas tighter, remembering their exchange earlier in the afternoon. Joy bursts in Dean’s heart and he kisses along Cas’ hairline. “Hope you’re not planning on having those Top 40 gagfests for our reception.” He pulls Castiel closer, giddy with the prospect.

Cas hums, pressing his face into Dean’s chest as the song ends. “We have to clean up the yard,” he says, cracking an eye open to survey the damage. While their friends made an attempt at cleanliness, there’s still food to clear away, as well as stray plates and beer bottles, the grill, tables, and tents. Dean leaves the speaker hooked up. In spite of how much he complains about this particular playlist, he honestly doesn’t mind the memories or emotions those songs evoke. 

Dean suspiciously eyes the mess. “No. Let’s just move and leave all this shit for the real estate agent.”

“Resale value is going to be crap if there’s rotten food in the backyard. Plus we just moved you in here. We’re not moving again for at least two years. Come on love.” 

_Love_. Dean inwardly glows at the pet name. It was something that just appeared one day in Cas’ lexicon, falling as simple and easy from his lips as if it had always been there. It’s remarkable, all the more so because Cas isn’t given to nicknames or endearments. That’s Dean’s territory: _baby, babe, sweetheart, handsome, big boy, stud, angel_ \--Dean says all of those on a regular basis, to varying degrees of exasperation on Cas’ end. 

Cas only ever calls him _love_ , and it sends Dean’s heart spiraling towards the heavens every single time.

With difficulty, Cas extracts himself from Dean’s arms. With a devilish glint in his eyes, he promises, “I’ll make it worth your while.” His tongue slides over his lower lip. How could Dean refuse that promise? 

Clean-up goes faster with the two of them working and in short time all the savable food is properly stored. Dean pauses to sneak another half-slice of pie (Dean, you can’t possibly still be hungry that’s your third piece--Wasn’t aware that you were counting, why don’t you get a life?), before shutting the refrigerator door. He has to push it shut with some emphasis, but after a tense moment, the seal holds. 

Dean turns around, only to be met with Cas’ insistent lips. His mouth opens automatically and Cas moans into his skin, fingers scraping over the back of his neck. With swift, sure movements, Cas backs Dean up against the counter. He urges Dean’s hands away from him, to grip the smooth edges, and Dean feels the moment when Castiel grins against his mouth. 

“We still have cleanup to do in the yard,” Dean murmurs, his fingers grasping tightly at the counter as Cas starts to work his shirt up his chest. 

“Fuck the cleanup,” Cas growls, nipping sharply at Dean’s jawline. Head craned back towards the ceiling, Dean grins. He could give a fuck about the remaining cleanup; it’s just hot as hell to watch Castiel lose his normally ironclad composure. 

In one smooth motion that takes Dean’s breath away, Castiel drops to his knees. His hands glide up and down Dean’s thighs, thumbs dipping teasingly into his inseam and close to his groin. He leans forward and brushes his nose against the growing bulge in Dean’s pants, and Dean shifts as Cas exhales hotly over the fabric of his jeans. 

“Good?” Cas pauses to ask, looking up at Dean through the curtain of his eyelashes. 

“Jesus,” Dean groans, sliding his hand through Cas’ hair to cup the curve of his skull. “You know that it is.” 

Cas grins, his hands already working at Dean’s belt. “Wanted to make sure,” he says, making short work of Dean’s belt and jeans. He slides the fabric down Dean’s legs, palming over Dean’s thighs, up to his hips. Dean spreads his legs as best he can with his jeans tangled around his ankles. 

Castiel licks over the head of his cock, groaning in the back of his throat in appreciation. Dean sighs as he combs through Cas’ hair. It’s not Cas’ best blowjob--he’s sloppy and overeager, but he makes up for the lack of finesse with enthusiasm, tonguing over the head before sliding down. Dean curses as Cas swallows around him, his fingers tightening in the dark strands. 

One of Cas’ hands rests over Dean’s hand. With gentle motions, he urges Dean to guide his head. Once Dean picks up a reliable rhythm, Cas pulls his hands away. One hand cups Dean’s balls and rolls them slowly in his palm, while the other slides to Dean’s ass, urging him to move. 

“Ah, fuck Cas,” Dean pants, pushing forward in small thrusts into Cas’ mouth. “Oh hell babe.” Between Cas’ hand and mouth, he’s already close, and Cas senses it in the trembling of his thighs. “I’m gonna...Gonna…” Dean holds Cas’ head steady as he thrusts into his willing mouth, spilling after only a few short pumps. 

Cas holds him in his mouth until he starts to go soft. After he releases Dean’s cock, spit-slick and shiny, to nestle against his groin, Cas stays on his knees. He rests his cheek against Dean’s hip, panting slightly. Dean pets at Cas’ hair, until his breathing returns to normal. 

“Fuck,” he finally breathes. Cas lets out a shaky laugh, nuzzling against Dean’s leg. “Come on babe, get up.” Cas rises, using Dean’s arm for support. Dean takes a moment to pull his jeans back up before he moves into the living room. The strains of music follow them. 

Dean sinks back on the couch (his couch, thank god, Cas’ monstrosity is now currently taking up some nice real estate in a thrift shop), and pulls Cas on top of him. With a small flick of his fingers he undoes the fastenings on Cas’ pants, sliding his jeans down over the swell of his ass. He gropes at Cas’ cheeks with the fascination of a horny teenager, not that Cas seems to mind. He rolls his hips against Dean’s stomach, his cock a hard, insistent, pressure. 

“Come on big boy,” Dean whispers, spreading his legs to make it easier for Cas. “Come all over me.” 

Normally Dean doesn’t have much patience for dry-humping, but this feels right--His hands on Cas’ ass, pushing him forward, fingers dipping into the cleft to tease at his rim, Cas’ fingers tight on his biceps. Cas breathes in his ear, harsh and ragged, and his cock slides wet and urgent over Dean’s abdomen. Cas’ hips jerk in uncoordinated movements as his face screws up in concentration. Dean murmurs encouragement, twitching when Cas brushes against his still sensitive groin. 

“Come on Cas, wanna see you,” Dean says, his voice rising above Cas’ high keen. He presses a dry fingertip to Cas’ hole, the barest hint of pressure, and Cas comes with a long, drawn-out whine. He collapses onto Dean’s chest, stroking idly over Dean’s chest as his breathing returns to normal. 

“We should get up,” Cas finally says. From the thickness in his voice, Dean can tell that he’s swiftly fading, which imbues him with a small sense of urgency. He knows, from experience, what an asshole Cas is when roused from sleep, even if it’s sleep on a couch with drying spunk between them. 

Dean manages to get them into bed with no loss of life or limbs. He even leaves Cas’ phone hooked up to the speaker, finishing out the last of the wedding playlist. It finishes on a slow song that Dean can remember dancing to. The lyrics dip inside of him, touching a place that Dean hadn’t allowed himself to dream of yet. 

_And you...You ought to give me wedding rings_. 

Curled up next to him, Cas is already halfway asleep. He stretches out his hand, and Dean meets him halfway, slipping his fingers in between the empty spaces of Cas’. “Hey Cas.” Cas grunts in reply. “You meant it right?” One blue eye cracks open. “About…” Dean flushes, but continues on. “About the reception?” He’s asking about more than just a fancy party, and he thinks that Cas knows that. 

“Every word,” Cas murmurs, shifting closer to Dean. “I told you: for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“Yeah.” Dean thumbs over Cas’ stubble, stubbornly scuffing his face despite his morning shave. Cas smiles at the attention, his eyes already drifting shut. “Go to sleep babe,” Dean orders, unnecessarily, as Cas’ chest rises and falls with slow, deep breaths. 

After a few moments, Dean relaxes back into his pillows. He reaches for his phone with his free hand, unwilling to release Cas’ slack fingers. 

He’s had the page bookmarked in his favorites for months now, but hasn’t spent more than a few minutes on the site at a time. Now, with this afternoon’s revelation fresh in his mind, Dean peruses at leisure, flipping through models and designs. Some he dismisses as too gaudy, others too plain, and some, like the glitter rainbow monstrosity, as just downright ugly. 

After ten minutes of looking, he stops. It’s a simple design which catches his eye: a white-gold band with a delicate twist, set with white and blue sapphires. The blue reminds him of Cas’ eyes. It’s a strong band, elegant, and Dean knows that it would sit easily on Cas’ left ring finger. 

_And you...You ought to give me wedding rings_.

Next to him, Castiel Milton sleeps peacefully, his hand resting in Dean’s. Dean looks down at him, his chest full to bursting with love. 

He looks back at the ring and begins to plan.

_**el fin.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> If you've left comments or kudos, I owe you a debt. You've all been so supportive and lovely and I appreciate every single kind word that you've given me. 
> 
> I do have several timestamps still planned for this universe, mostly because I can't quite bear to let it go just yet. If there's something that you're dying to see, give me a holler and if I can, I'll jot down a little something something. 
> 
> I've also set up a side tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dothwrites), where I shout about Destiel, writing, and other assorted things. Come check me out. Or, you know, don't. I respect your choices. 
> 
> Much love. See you next time. 
> 
> <3 Doth


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